


Let's ride on into the sunrise instead

by OwlBird



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-03-07 20:20:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3181847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlBird/pseuds/OwlBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My first (!) modern AU take on Sansa, set in modern California. Characters' names have been updated, and some story arcs/characters have been modified as needed. More tags will be added as it goes along, and expect some plot twisting and thickening. Feedback appreciated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Horse of a Different Color

_It is not enough for a man to know how to ride; he must know how to fall - Mexican Proverb_

____________________________________________________________

The first time, it’s almost an accident. She slides the Luna Bar from the drugstore into her pocket, telling herself she’ll put it back before she leaves. But she doesn’t, and even though she’s not even that hungry, and takes only a bite before she throws it away, she feels a rush that makes her feel powerful and in control. It’s that rush that drives her to do it a second time. The scarf burns a silken hole in her purse as she leaves the clothing store, and she’s barely around the corner before her breath leaves her in a deep exhale and she feels warmth pooling in strange places.

Her teammates tease her about the scarf (‘from an admirer, Sansa?’) and Sansa tells herself she’ll not do it again - she _can’t_ , what if she gets _caught_? But, after a less than a week, she feels the urge rising up, through her spine and into her fingertips. She didn’t use to feel this way - but the last three years, it seems, have changed her. Three years of being told you’re not worth it, that you’re stupid and ugly, of losing your freedom bit by bit so that by the time you realize you’re in a cage it’s too late can do that to someone.

So she goes into the jewelry shop on her weekly Friday trip into town (escorted and limited, but it’s still as close to freedom as it gets nowadays), admires a few pieces, and her heart is already beginning to pound in that delicious, seductive way when she feels the security guard’s hand around her arm and her euphoria converts to dread.

____________________________________________________________

Four hours later, she’s sitting in the backseat of the Jaguar as far away from Cercee as she can manage without flinging the door open. Not that it makes a difference, really; she would feel Cercee’s fury just as potently from the moon.

“I don’t know what the hell you were thinking Sansa,” and Sansa has to admire how Cercee’s voice is husky and honeyed even through gritted teeth. “What a stupid, STUPID thing to do, even for a twit like you.” Cercee recrosses her legs - shapely and beautiful even in tan riding pants - and laughs. “Well, you can certainly forget having any kind of a role in this season’s competitions. I mean, really.”

Sansa’s heart sinks even lower. Maybe opening the car door wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

The rest of the trip passes in silence until the chauffeur pulls into the driveway. Light pours from the mansion - large and lavish even by L.A. standards.

“I don’t even want to see your face for the next few days, understand Sansa? In fact, just disappear until Peter comes.”

Sansa manages to stammer out “Peter?”

“Yes, Peter. Peter Baelish, our attorney. He’ll be working out the terms of your community service with the police. And be sure to call him Mr. Baelish,” Cercee says as Oswell, Cercee's  chauffeur-cum-‘handyman’, opens her door. “He may have grown up in some godforsaken part of Maine, but he’s the best.” Her red lips gleam against the lamplight. “Not that you deserve it.” The car door slams shut.

Sansa opens her door and slinks down the end of the driveway marked by two snarling marble lions, around the giant patio with its firepit and gold-tiled pool, down the path to the ranch building attached to the stables. Her room is small - space for a twin bed, a dresser, and a desk, but the furniture is well-made and comfortable, the linens clean and fresh. And it does have a window, though, even if it only looks out onto the patio and not the garden.

She’d thought the whole place grander than anything she’d ever seen when she first arrived - certainly in comparison to her own home. She’d never been ashamed of Winterfell before - it was a sprawling place, old with grey brick and white wood, smelling of salt and tundra, and she used to play for hours in the wild gardens - but for sheer ostentation, it could never rival Red Keep Ranch.

____________________________________________________________

When Cercee and her then-husband Robert had visited Winterfell, she had been star-struck. Cercee, daughter of media mogul Tywin and famous Olympiad in her own right, and wife to Robert, who ran one of the largest talent agencies in the world. She was all poise and name brands and golden charm.

Sansa had taken her horse out (named Lady, in honor of her wolf-husky hybrid, one of a pack, but who had died while still a puppy), silently urging her to do the tricks they had just started practicing, in the hopes of impressing Cercee and her son Jeffrey (“my friends call me Jeff” he smiled and Sansa felt that smile right into her toes). When Cercee suggested she might be talented enough to come to the Red Keep and train with the Olympic dressage team she managed, Sansa had been over the moon. She begged her mother and father to go, telling them what an amazing opportunity it was, one she could never get in Anchorage. Reluctantly, they let her, and only on the condition that Ned accompany her for the first couple weeks. He had, although he spent most of his time with Robert in LA, discussing ‘business.’ What that business was, exactly, hadn’t then concerned Sansa. Her mind was filled with thoughts of gold medals, and competition-ready outfits, and she saw only the A-grade equipment, the Arabian stable horses, the palm trees that waved in the backyard when guests mingled with champagne and tuna flown straight in from Japan. She never imagined it would be the last time she’d see her family whole.

____________________________________________________________

Now it was three years later, and Sansa felt as though it had been three decades. Ned, her father, her beloved father who wrapped her in blankets and brought her cocoa when she snuck into his study late at night, claiming she couldn’t sleep, was dead. A sudden flu, one the doctors said not to worry about. But then suddenly he was dead, and the family fell apart.

Robb fell in with the wrong crowd, starting staying out late, started doing coke, but was just beginning to straighten himself out, they thought, when cops found in an abandoned train car one icy morning, dead from heroin and frozen solid. Her mother Catherine, who had always been the strong one, always insisted they go to Mass, and do their homework, stopped. Stopped making pancakes with blueberries in the shape of smiley faces. Stopped brushing her long red hair, which Sansa had so admired. Stopped doing anything but sitting by the window of the ‘home’ (for crazies, Arya had whispered when they were little) she checked into, staring out into the Bay. Arya dropped out of school, and last Sansa heard was touring the country with some death metal band called “Brotherhood without Banners.” Bran had entered seminary school, way out in Ketchikan. Rickon was in and out of juvie - thank god he at least had Osha, a part-Tlingit local who had looked after the house when they were kids and who had always scared Sansa a bit. And Jon - Sansa had no idea where Jon was. She thought she found something on Google about a Jon Snow entering Ranger School, but then Cercee had cut off her internet privileges.

Sansa moved out of the house and into the rancher compound, her days filled with practice, legally-mandated home schooling, and teaching little kids whose parents probably paid a gazillion dollars to be trained by Cercee (or her minions, it didn’t matter, as long as ‘Red Keep Ranch’ was the symbol on their certificates). She didn’t mind the kids, not really, and she never tired of the feeling of being one with the horses, them guiding each other through the paces as friends and equals, but she didn’t really have a choice. Cercee told her she had to earn her stay here, and she owed them a ton already, what with her trainings and clothes and travel to competitions.

So she’s still here, in hell, otherwise known as sunny Sunland, California, an indentured servant in all but name, no family, no home, no foreseeable way out.

____________________________________________________________

The next Monday is busy, and Sansa has to hurry to change out of her mud-spattered boots and into something that says ‘I swear I’m not a menace to society.’ She settles on a simple green dress with capped sleeves and her one pair of heels. As agreed, Oswell is to drive her to Mr. Baelish’s office in Sherman Oaks, and pick her up an hour later. Sansa looks out the window, watching the pines and oaks change into low-slung houses, and then rise up into glass and steel. The building they stop at is all modern angles and windows. Sansa gets out of the car and walks into the lobby, marking her name down in the entry books. Only it isn’t ‘Sansa Stark’ she writes in, but ‘Alayne Stone.’ Sansa had read the name in some shitty romance novel in middle school, and she’d sometimes pretend that’s who she was; Alayne Stone, a bad-ass serving girl (even if brown-haired) who flouts the rules and sets the kingdom straight.

She rides the gleaming elevator to the 15th floor and steps into the carpeted hallway. ‘Er, I’m here to see Mr. Baelish? I’m Sansa Stark?” she tells the attractive ginger secretary. “Sure,” she smiles - warmly, Sansa is surprised to note - “I’m Ros, by the way. D’you want a cup of coffee or water? Maybe some herbal tea?.” Sansa shakes her head, and Ros walks her to the end of the hallway to the half-open door. “Your 1 o’clock is here, Peter.”

“Thanks, Ros,” replies Peter, turning from the window to face them. He’s silhouetted against the sunlight, making it hard to gauge his expression, although Sansa thinks she sees his eyes glinting as they take her in.

“Please, sit down.” Sansa sits across from his desk, crossing her legs at the ankles (like a lady does, she hears her mother’s voice from years ago).

“Thank you, Mr. Baelish.”

She can see his face more clearly when he sits. He’s pale - none of that California glow - and his hair is black except where it’s greying prematurely at the edges. Sansa doesn’t particularly like his goatee (it’s too trimmed and pointed), but his eyes are kind, and his hands are warm when he reaches over his lacquered desk (empty but for the Macbook Pro, a manila folder, and a large feather pen-and-ink stand) to shake her hand.

“Welcome, Sansa. And please,” he smiles and she sees gleaming white teeth, “call me Peter.”

 


	2. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth

_"If you are fearful, a horse will back off. If you are calm and confident, it will come forward." - Clare Balding_

______________________________________________________________

“Welcome, Sansa. And please,” he smiles and she sees gleaming white teeth, “call me Peter.”

“Peter,” she repeats, giving him a polite half-smile before looking down at her feet and bracing herself for the patronizing tone she expects from anyone voluntarily associated with Cercee (or that Cercee would let Sansa associate with). If he notices her reluctance, he makes no sign, and his recitation is respectful, if a little distant.

“So, then,” he says, uncapping a fountain pen and letting it rest lightly on a pad of lined yellow paper. “Facts first. From my conversation with Ms. Lannister and after reviewing your file, it seems you were apprehended by a security officer at Fossoway’s last Thursday on suspicion of shoplifting. That the guard found a necklace in your pocket, silver with a sapphire pendant, valued at $800.” Sansa cringes inwardly at the litany of facts. “And that you confessed to attempting to steal this item. Is this all true, or is anything missing? Because if it isn’t, I’ll make sure they amend the description.”

“No. It’s all true.” (A lot is missing, she thinks, but she doesn’t think her life story would interest the tiny Tajunga PD).

“Ah. Regardless, seeing as it was your first offense and the item was returned without issue, it’s very unlikely they would want to press charges. In fact, given the...prominence of the Lannisters, I imagine we could convince them to drop it altogether. You can go back to training; I understand this is a particularly busy time of year for the Red Keep.” Petyr looks up then, with a pleasantly detached expression, the kind that signals, ‘well, then. If there’s nothing else...’

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Petyr sounds amused. “I would have thought that was good news.”

“No, it is. I appreciate it, I do. Thank you. It’s just that...I thought that maybe I would have to do community service or something. For a couple months or so.”

There’s something in Sansa’s tone and the look in her eyes that appears to give him pause.

“You were hoping for community service? A chance to give back, perhaps?"

“Yes, exactly,” Sansa answers, just a shade too eagerly.

Peter leans back in his chair, hands folded strangely delicately across his chest, and Sansa gets the feeling she’s being examined. She sits straighter, and her red hair, usually tightly wound in french braids or tucked under riding helmets, falls over her shoulders in a wave. There’s silence for a good minute before Peter blinks and clears his throat.

“Well, I suppose community service could be recommended. Perhaps at Gold Cloak Theater.” When Sansa looks at him questioningly, “it’s a non-profit theater for disadvantaged teens. I happen to be a significant patron there. And I’m sure they would also understand if I needed an extra hand here at the office from time to time.” She sees him write something swiftly on his yellow legal pad and look back up at her. “But I have to tell you, Sansa, I’m not sure I can help you in the way you’re looking for.”

She understands that’s her cue, and stands up. “Please, Mr. Baelish. You’ve already been so helpful. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

“We’ll see each other next week, then. I’ll arrange the details with Ms. Lannister.” Peter gets up, and presses his fingers lightly against her back as he guides her to the door. She tells herself it’s the frigid A/C that makes her shiver. He calls down the hall. “Ros, would you see Ms. Stark out?”

“Yes, Mr. Baelish.”

Before Sansa crosses the threshold, Peter asks: “out of curiosity - was there a reason you chose that particular piece? Of jewelry, I mean?”

Sansa thinks about the necklace, the silver pendant in the shape of a bird, sapphire wings outstretched. About how she made sure to linger a little too long over it, and tuck it a little too obviously into her pocket. She looks at Peter, his own neutral expression bright on her face. “No, no reason.” Peter nods. “Of course.” He lets her go and turns away.

The ride back to Red Keep is silent, as usual, but Sansa can’t hide a small smile. She always thought her ability to read upside down was pretty useless as far as random talents go, but she’s glad to be wrong.

____________________________________________________________

The state-of-the-art conference telephone rings against the spotless lacquer of Peter’s desk. “Mr. Baelish, I have your two o’clock call on hold. Shall I transfer it over, or tell him you’ll call back?”

“No...patch him through, Ros. Thank you.”

Peter looks down at the legal pad, his note hastily but elegantly scrawled.

_“Has Cate’s hair.”_

  
Face expressionless, he tears off the page, and tucks it into the folder labeled ‘Stark, Sansa.’ He rearranges his face into a smile, and picks the up the receiver. “Mace! So good to hear from you. How have you been?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is indeed a reason Sansa took too long over the necklace, which will become clear in later chapters. I've tried to plot this story in more detail than my others, so odds are odd notes in the story are there on purpose!


	3. Horsing Around

 

_"Riding:  The art of keeping a horse between you and the ground."  - Anonymous_

______________________________________________________________

Her ‘mandated’ service at Gold Cloaks Theater is fine: mostly rearranging sets pieces and mindless data-entry, although she does occasionally get to watch groups of kids practice various song-and-dance-routines. The work itself is unnoteworthy, but the elation at wresting control (however brief and petty) from Cercee carries Sansa high. Even if she’s only beginning to understand, in her gut, how addictive such power can be.

The weeks pass. Peter stops by at irregular intervals, saying hellos before going to one of the back offices. So soon enough, that initial taste of power now suggests to her (quietly and sly) that it’s time to kick it up a notch.

It’s another month, and two weeks until the end of her service, before she finds a chance. The day before she’s supposed to go to Gold Cloaks, she finds Osmund alone and begs him to let her stay a few hours longer; she’s seen so little of L.A. and some of the kids from the Gold Cloak are going to the park to practice dance and maybe grab some food or something. Please, Osmund? Cercee is going to be out all afternoon, and she’ll take the bus back and be home before anyone knows, and she can totally organize a ride on the new Arabian if he wants. Her thanks are profuse; mostly genuine. She doesn’t trust him to have her back, but he seems halfway to being a decent guy, and she doesn’t think he’d give her up over ice cream and an outing in the park. And if does - well, as long as Sansa’s plan works, it won’t really matter.

She makes sure she’s positioned near the entrance that Peter usually walks through, slowly and (truth be told) unnecessarily moving chairs around as she waits. She has a feeling he’ll come, but if he doesn’t, she has his business card in her pocket, a little dog-eared for rubbing it, and she’ll call.

It’s Plan A, though, as Peter walks in around 4pm. She waits (wait, Sansa, don’t look eager) a beat or two before looking in his direction and offering up a smile.

“Hi, Mr. Baelish!”

He smiles avuncularly. “I thought I said to call me Peter, Sansa.”

“Yes of course. Sorry. Peter.” She returns the smile, and lets him go.

Later, Jeyne walks up to her and asks if she wants to join the group going to the park. Jeyne’s got a lead in the latest production: she’s pretty, friendly, and sings well enough. Sansa thinks that in another lifetime, they would have been good friends. But they’re in this one, so she declines Jeyne’s offer, saying her ride is waiting for her. After the troupe’s left and it’s quiet, Sansa walks to the door separating the theater from the offices and goes in. She walks down the hallway, knocks at the door she knows he’s behind, and enters. The room is nondescript, almost theatrically so. A desk with a computer, a couple metal filing cabinets, a coat rack and a few fading posters of past performances; it’s a far cry from Peter’s luxurious office in Sherman Oaks. He looks up with a mildly surprised expression, and, just a shade too quickly, exits whatever software he was running.

“Sansa? What can I do for you? Has there been any problem with the volunteer service? Or the kids?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I, well…” She’s practiced this over and over, but it still seems to ring false.  “I know this is a terrible inconvenience, but Osmund said he couldn’t pick me up today and to take the bus back, but the whole L.A. bus system is totally beyond me, and...is there any way at all you could give me a ride back to the Keep? The Red Keep Ranch, I mean? I can wait, of course, however long you need. I’m really, really sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry your ride abandoned you.” Smiles. “I’d never have done so.” Smiles. “If you can wait an hour, I can drive.”

“Oh, thank you so, so much, Peter. I really appreciate it.”

“It’s not a problem, Sansa. I’ll come and get you in a bit. Just need to finish a few things here. I provide some services here pro bono...and between you and me, they need all the help they can get.” This time he adds a wink to the smile.

“Of course.” She backtracks back out and closes the door.

True to his word, he reappears an hour later, suit jacket on and briefcase in tow. “Ready to go, Sansa?”

“Yep! I’ll just grab my bag.” She picks up the leather satchel, modified from an old saddle bag (designed myself, Sansa thinks with a touch of pride), and slings it over her dress (the same one she wore for their first meeting).

She follows him out to the street; the contrast from the dimly lit interior to the setting sun strafing through the palm trees making her blink. She keeps the accustomed deferential step-and-a-half behind as they walk the block to the parking lot.

The valet pulls up with the car, and she looks for the model from the corner of her eye (snobby habits die hard). Audi S8. Nice. Peter bids her get in, so she does, sliding her legs into the leather-clad passenger seat. Of course he’s got leather seats, Sansa thinks.

There’s silence for a while as car ascends away from the stoplights and storefronts and into the dusk and dust. The mountain outlines of Angeles Forest rise in front of them, and Sansa clears her throat.

“Thank you again for giving me a ride, Peter. I really appreciate it.”

“You said that already, Sansa. And I told you: not a problem.”

Sansa takes a deep breath, trying to look at him from her peripherals. The tidy angles of his profile wear their typical pleasant neutrality, but his fingers are curled possessively over the gear-shift, and it makes her stomach feel a bit off-balance. “You never asked me why I did it.”

“Why you did what?”

“Why I took that necklace.”

He shifts the gears, and she feels, rather than hears, the car rev up. “Oh? I thought there was no reason.”

“There was. To meet you.”

Her peripheral vision tells her his neutral masks momentarily falls off. “Well I admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

Sansa takes another breath to help her plow on. “I - I know you knew my mother. I used to love going through her old yearbooks and have her tell me about her days at Sayre School in Kentucky. And then, a couple months ago, I, er, saw an email you sent to Cercee. She left her phone in the stable lounge by accident,” Sansa hurries on by way of explanation. “And I remembered your name. Then after the Luna Bar that first time-” Petyr lifts an eyebrow but says nothing -”I thought that, if I got caught shoplifting, I’d have the chance to meet you. And I thought, maybe, you could help me help my mother.”

“Ah.” The fingers on the gear shift flex.  “So you were willing to risk a record to see if I could help? That’s rather foolish. And I did tell you, Sansa, that I didn’t know if I could help you the way you’re looking for.”

Sansa sees the wooden pillars come into view, a metal puma swinging beneath the carved ‘Red Keep’ logo. She feels her heart sinking. She’s messed it up. She’s failed, just like the failure Cercee says she is. The car rolls to a low gravel stop a couple yards before the driveway entrance.  

She turns to face him. “I know it was stupid to shoplift. My mother would have been horrified.” Peter smiles faintly at that. “And I know it’s not fair to ask you, and you don’t have to do it. I’m asking because...I don’t have anyone else to ask. Whenever I have access to the internet, I can’t find anything. It’s like it’s been wiped or something. And I don’t have the money to get back. And,” Sansa pauses as her voice gets too warm and wavering. “I don’t want to break any rules.” As Peter’s eyebrow questions her, she corrects: “get anyone else in trouble, I mean. But if there’s any way you could help, or let me know anything I could do…” Sansa stops, eyes willing him to understand.

The leather seat scrunches slightly as Peter turns, observing her face caught between crestfall and hope. “I meant what I said, Sansa; I don’t know that I can help you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try.” Sansa’s response is a smile, unconscious, genuine, and infectious. His smile is still avuncular, but also a little rueful. “You look a lot like your mother right now. She had the same expression when she wanted to skip class or sneak out of the dorms.” His hand twitches as if to touch her, but it doesn’t.

“My dear Sansa. As it happens, I’m scheduled to stop by Red Keep again next week.” A pause. “Well, now. That’s a lie. I will be stopping by next week, with some matters to discuss with Cercee. Perhaps we can talk, and you can show me around the stables? I remember how much your mother used to love to ride.”

“Ok. That sounds good, I mean. Thank you.” Her thank-you is a murmur, and she touches his knee in a show of gratefulness. “Thank you, Peter.” Then she opens the car door and gets out, one milky-white leg at a time. The door closes with a soft and expensive ‘clink.’

______________________________________________________________

Peter shifts the car into gear, turns around, and starts driving back before abruptly pulling over into a lightless ‘scenic view’ lot. “Fuck.” He opens the compartment in the center console, pulls out what looks like a roll of coins. He twists off the top, takes a quick snort, replaces the cap. He leans his head back against the leather. “Fuck.” This was not how it was supposed to happen. He was supposed to come to her, not the other way around; his original plan was getting fucked six ways till Sunday. But as the coke kicks in, he calms down. He’s a pro. Graduated top of his law school class, for fucks sake. He’ll adapt. His eyes dilate, and his cock twitches as he remembers her legs. Peter shakes his head. No. He’s not going to let himself pull that crap; if he needs his dick sucked there are other places to go. And wouldn’t you know, he tells himself, smiling, in on his own joke. Yes. He’s back in control now. Back in control. The car roars to life and flies down the highway, back to the valley and the lights.

 ____________________________________________________________ 

Sansa hurries down the long driveway, the fear at getting caught outweighed by the hope blooming in her chest, like a cactus flower after rain. Someone is going to help her. Maybe soon she can figure out where her remaining family is, how to get back to them. How to get out of here. She hurries into the stable quarters, so lost in thought she nearly trips over the entrance.

“It’s good to see you, Sansa. We were beginning to get worried.”

She grabs the doorframe for balance, and, to her horror, looks up to see Tyrion, his bright green eye and his dark brown eye staring intently back at her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is actually a private school called Sayre School in Lexington, Kentucky. It seems like a place Catelyn could be from: old money and bluegrass and rolling hills :). Peter, on the other hand, could have come from a rural part of Maine, and attended Sayre on scholarship.


	4. A Small Pony Can Still Cast a Long Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tyrion enters the picture, and we get a brief overview of the interesting Lannister family dynamics. Vaguely inspired by the Tyrion-Sansa wedding and Petyr's attempts to get her out of King's Landing.

" _I just got on a pony's back and away I went._ " - Gordon Richards

____________________________________________________________

“Tyrion!” Sansa says, smiling brightly, fakely, since she doesn’t know what else to do. “What are you doing here?” (she winces at how accusatory her question sounds).

“Trying to cover your ass, actually, if you want to know.” Sansa just stares at him, so he continues. “Cercee came back from her trip early, asked about you. I said I’d asked you to check on Monkey, since she seemed a bit off on my ride. Good thing you came back when you did.”

Relief seeps into Sansa’s knees, and she sags into a nearby chair.

“...thank you, Tyrion. I mean it. I mean, not like I was - I, I was just out taking a...walk.” (I’m going to have to get better at excuses, Sansa thinks). “I know you didn’t have to, and...thanks.”

“Hey, no worries.” He slips to the nearby miniature fridge and pulls out two beers. He offers one to Sansa, which she accepts. The beer is bitter on her tongue, but she relishes the feel of it, cold and rich, sliding down her throat. “Frankly, I think it’s ridiculous she keeps you to such a tight schedule.”

“Well, she does what she has to do. She is running one of the premier riding stables on the West Coast, after all.”

“For sure. No horsing around for the staff.”

Sansa looks at Tyrion, and before she can restrain herself, snorts in a most undignified manner. The corner of his mouth quirks up, and they both begin to laugh, laughing until Sansa’s stomach hurts. She moves to the couch where he’s sitting, and takes another sip of beer. Her good mood is dimmed, however, when she catches him looking at her at her neck as she tilts back the bottle with a poorly masked expression of desire.

“So,” says Tyrion, running a hand through his dirty blond hair, “how is everything else with you?”

“Fine. That community service thing is almost over, so I can get back to practicing for the Regionals.”

“Yeah.” Tyrion looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t.

“I wish she would give me a little more control developing the routines; I know what I’m doing, and I’m _good_.” Sansa sighs. “But none of that matters, right? Cercee runs the ranch. She runs it, Jaime’s press tours and Wheeties covers pay for it, and your dad owns it, along with most of the rest of California.”

“Hey.” Tyrion cautiously places one hand on her arm. “It’s not so bad. I’ll ask Cercee if you can spend some time with me, learn the ropes of managing the stables. I may not own half of California, but I do help run a lot of my father’s companies. It could be fun, you and me...horsing around?” His smile is smart and sweet and hopeful, and Sansa’s a little sad she doesn’t feel anything in return. Maybe it’s because she can never forget that he’s a Lannister, even if he doesn’t act like a raging asshole, and she knows that, in the end, he’ll put family first.

Either way, she manages a smile back. “Yeah. That would be cool. I’d like that. But um - I’m actually feeling kind of beat, and I have to check on Lancel and Moonboy before dinner; they’ve been a bit colicky the last couple days. Would you mind?”

“Oh, sure. No, go ahead. I know you’re busy.”

“Thanks. And Tyrion?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks again for tonight. I owe you one.” They both smile at each other, and both know the other is faking it.

Tyrion stays in the lounge for a bit, finishing his beer. His iPhone vibrates; it’s Bronn, asking if he’s coming out to Les Deux.  “No can do,” he taps out. “I have to go watch the UFC Championships aka family dinner.”

Almost immediately the reply bubbles up: “Sorry, bro. Guess it’ll just be me + the ladies. I’ll pour 1 out for u.”

“Asshole,” Tyrion mutters, pushing himself off the couch. What he wouldn’t give to be there, not here, but it’s the monthly Lannister family dinner, and if Tywin was Moses, he would have made sure there was only one commandment: thou shalt obey they father. So he takes one last swig, braces himself, and waddles up the walkway. 

____________________________________________________________

To the surprise of no one, dinner is an awkward affair. Tywin sits at the head of the table, a position usually occupied by Cercee. Tyrion gets a small amount of amusement knowing how such subservience must grate on her. Cercee and Jaime sit on either side of him, followed by Tomas and Sansa on one side, he on the other. Marella is away at board school, and the seat meant for Jeff is vacant, and he knows that bothers Cercee too, despite her assured “he’ll be here. He’s just texted to say he’s stuck in traffic.”

But at least there’s good wine, and the steaks are done to perfection, and his promise to visit the new kitten Ser Pounce after dinner earns delighted smiles from Tom. Another bonus: Tywin is distracted, firing constant emails out from his Blackberry, and thus has less time to spread his icy vitriol on his relations.

In fact, Tyrion is beginning to thank that he might just get through this dinner unscathed when they all hear the sounds of screeching brakes and the soulful autotunings of Lil’ Wayne. A few beats later, Jeffrey walks in, grey jeans snug on his athletic frame, linen dress shirt rolled up at the elbows, sunglasses resting on his blond hair. Tyrion would admit that his nephew is good-looking, but he finds the boy’s attitude erases whatever grace his genes have given him. More notable this evening, anyway, is his companion: Margery Tyrell, newest member of Cercee’s riding team and daughter of Mace Tyrell, who, in one form or the other, owned a vast chunk of California’s agricultural industry.

Jeff walks over and gives Cercee a quick kiss. “Sorry I’m late, Mom, really. Traffic was just insane on the 101.” He sits down and plucks a green bean off a plate. “Any left for me? Any left for me, Eduardo?” he repeats loudly.

“Aren’t you going to offer Margery a seat, Jeff?” Cercee asks, a little thinly.

“Oh, of course! Sorry Marg.” He sweeps his arm. “Sit anywhere you like.”

“Thanks, Jeff. And thank you Ms. Baratheon and Mr. Lannister, for letting me join dinner. I know it was unexpected.” She sits down down in the carved wood chair, her peach Alberta Ferretti dress folding neatly around her. Tywin looks up briefly and gives the smallest of nods.

“So, Margery,” continues Cercee while cutting into her steak with perhaps a little too much violence, “to what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Margery daintily swallows a piece of meat before answering: “it was the funniest thing, Ms. Baratheon! I was trying to pick up my car after leaving The Grove, and it turns out I had parked what the cop thought was illegally, and they towed my car. Luckily, I saw Jeff at that very moment, and he offered to drive me to the towing place to pick it up.”

“I was her knight in shining armor,” grins Jeffrey. Sansa looks like she just ate something rotten.

“Food not to your liking, dear?” asks Cercee.

Sansa clears her throat. “No, it’s delicious. You’re so lucky that you have Eduardo as chef.”

“It’s not luck, dear. It’s knowing how to find the best.”

“Of course.”

“Oh, Sansa!” interjects Margery. “I saw your routine the other day - it’s fantastic! I wish I could be that good. You must have been working overtime to get it right. And that piaffe rhythym on the downbeat - is that new?”

For the first time at dinner, Sansa’s expression brightens. Tyrion can’t help but notice how strikingly beautiful Sansa is when she smiles.

“Yes, actually. We’ve been practicing for a while - and it just came together last week! Little Dove gets most of the credit though.” Sansa’s eyes crinkle with just the slightest hint of mischief. “She’s such a diva and just loves to show off.”

A smirk forms on Cercee’s face at the last sentence. “Actually, this might be as good a time as any to announce it,” Cercee says to the table. “Margery has shown such promise lately, such potential that I’ve decided: she’ll be first tier at the Olympic auditions in May.”

Several things happen at once.

Jeffrey grins and says, “amazing, babe. We’ll celebrate later.”

Margery looks surprised but happy, and issues a series of profuse thanks, before shooting a look at Sansa that seems to be a mix of apology and sympathy.

Tywin murmurs a brief ‘congratulations’ and excuses himself from the table.

Jaime smiles genially but says nothing.

Tom looks like he misses his kitten.

Tyrion looks at Sansa. Maybe it’s the bottle of Opus I’s cab sauv he’s already consumed but he finds himself announcing loudly: “I’d like to sponsor Sansa, then.”

“ _What_?” Cercee says.

“I said I’ll do it. I’ll take care of her expenses. She can try out in my name.” He knows payback and Cercee will be a bitch, but, fuck it. Sansa doesn’t deserve this (and he chooses to ignore the voice in his head saying he wants her to want him for it).

The rest of the evening gets a bit blurry. He does remember surviving through dessert (a delicious fig sorbet with lemon cream), then friends of Jeff showing up, Cercee pulling Jaime into the library after hissing “we’ll take about this later, Ty.” Then going home, having a whisky, and giving Shayna an embarrassingly obvious booty call. He also remembers Sansa mouthing him a sad but earnest ‘thank you’ before retreating back to her quarters.

He feels a pang of unease at that last thought. Before she'd left, and right after Cercee had made her announcement, he remembers looking over at Sansa and being taken aback at the expression he saw on her face (gone as quick as it came). It wasn’t fear or sadness or even anger he saw there: it was hate. Cercee is breeding a wolf; God help her if the wolf finds claws.

____________________________________________________________

Un-effing-believable, Peter thinks, sitting in his office late the next day. It would be comical if it wasn’t so irritating. He’s spent all this time planting the notion with Cercee and Mace that it would be beneficial for both families if Margery was promoted to top tier instead of Sansa. Sure, Sansa had talent and experience, but it would give Red Keep and Tyrell-Ag a great PR boost. But before he can step in, offer to host Sansa, pay her expenses, and eventually pull her out of the Red Keep, that wretched Tyrion (what the hell kind of name is Tyrion anyway? Some weird homage to his dad?) offers instead.

That man has been a thorn in my side for too long. What till you hear  _me_ fucking roar. He presses the intercom.

“Ros!”

“Yes, Mr. Baelish?”

“Get me Corbray, would you?”

“Yes, Mr. Baelish.”

____________________________________________________________

It's a warm and windy day when Peter drives up to the Red Keep; the Angeles Mountains are hazy in the background, and the air smells of horses and woodsmoke. You’d never know it once you were inside the house, though, which wouldn’t be out of place in Beverly Park or Bel Air with its marble countertops, hardwood floors, and fireplaces framed in steel and etched with lions. Lions symbols were everywhere, it seemed. It was at the insistence of Cercee and over the objections of her then-husband Robert, and was supposedly a nod to the Lannisters’ roots in the early gold rush, when one of their forebears became famous for killing mountain lions and wearing their pelts. Peter had to hand it to Cercee though. The place was impressive.

He was escorted by Osmund into a room in the back of the house, facing the mountains and with skylights that let in the sun. Cercee was going through papers on an oaken desk when we walked in.

“Peter. Please, sit down.” Peter complies.

“So - in your interest and mine, let’s get right to business. Firstly - thank you for the suggestion about Margery Tyrell. It went over quite well.”

Peter murmurs something self-effacing.

“But I’m a little concerned that my requested acquisition of Tyrell shares hasn’t been addressed yet.”

“I apologize; it’s taking more time than expected because the company is still privately-held. But I expect it to be resolved shortly."

“Fine. You know, Peter, I hate to mention it since you’ve certainly helped us out in the past, but there are other attorneys out there. Plenty of them.”

“It will be resolved, Cercee. I can assure you.”

“Yes, I’m sure it will. And I appreciate it.” Cercee gets up with an envelope in hand, which she gives to him. Dead presidents peek out at him.

Peter tucks it into his jacket pocket. “I’ll see myself out, Cercee. Call if you need anything.” He looks back at the room from the doorway. The sun is hitting her hair, giving her body (highlighted in designer jeans and a silk blouse) a golden glow. Life is funny, thinks Peter. A mountain lion, still gloriously feral, but unable to realize that the hunters are closing in around her.

____________________________________________________________

Blinking in the sunlight, Peter walks the winding path through the scrub pines down to the stables. He had tried his hand at riding at Sayre, but he was never particularly good at it; remaining in the saddle had usually been his main objective.

Walking through the airy stables, he hears the sound system playing a vaguely familiar tune. He emerges into the paddock used for dressage practice, and sees Sansa on Little Dove. Her braid is a red arrow down her back, the tilt of her wrist bones mirroring the lift of the horse’s delicate legs to what, he now recognizes, is M. Ward’s ‘Sad, Sad, Song.’

He watches her, unseen, and entranced. There’s no other word for how he feels. Everything about her is poised and possessing a graceful economy of movement. At first he thinks she’s a vision of Cate, a replica of something lost. But that’s not right, and she’s not Cate. Sansa is a memory that’s taken on a life of its own, developed new memories and colors and maps. She’s her own creation and he’s fascinated.

His applause startles her until she recognizes him. She trots Little Dove over.

“I hope I didn’t scare you - but I didn’t want to disturb your practice.”

“It’s no problem. Did you like it?” Closer up, he can see her face is flushed and the sweat beading on her upper lip. It stirs him.

“Very much.” A pause. “If you have a moment, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you?”

The tone in his voice makes her suddenly serious, and she nods. “Let me take off her saddle, and I’ll meet you inside.”

Ten minutes later and she’s back, still in her riding gear but without her helmet.

“I don’t want to discuss too many details here” - he gestures around him - “and we can talk more later, but: you need to refuse Tyrion’s offer to pay for your entry.”

To her credit, she doesn’t ask how he knows. “But...but why? Why, if Ty’s paying for it?”

“Because they’re not to be trusted, Sansa.” He tilts his head and lays a gentle hand on her shoulder.”

“Well, yes. I may be naive, but even I know that. But Ty’s never done anything to hurt me, and saying no would just make Cercee more suspicious.”

Peter pauses, as if weighing something. He pulls a file out from his briefcase. “I did some digging on your family, like you asked. Sansa. I hate to tell you this, but I found something. Something not good.”

Sansa’s throat goes dry.

He opens the folder and gives it to her. “Sansa. Your brother Rob didn’t overdose by accident. They killed him. The Lannisters. And Tyrion made the drug that did it.”

There’s a pause before she looks at him, her blue eyes intense and he feels goosebumps along his spine. Finally she says, in an oddly flat voice: “What do I have to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by just_a_dram's links to visual inspirations in A City of Fortune and Failure, here are links to some items mentioned in this chapter. 
> 
> Margery's dress: http://resources.shopstyle.com/sim/0d/7c/0d7c95cc8f3ca9f260dcfae0b55e6904/philosophy-di-alberta-ferretti-sleeveless-silk-cocktail-dress-light-pink.jpg
> 
> What I imagine the Red Keep to look like:  
> \- http://www.cookefurniture.com/wp-cooke/wp-content/uploads/socal_palisades-310x310.jpg   
> \- http://homesoftherich.net/2010/02/extraordinary-french-normandy-estate-in-hidden-hills/
> 
> Tyrion's choice of wine: http://www.opusonewinery.com/product/Opus-One-2011-Carton
> 
> M. Ward's Sad, Sad, Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VpJzTe3gyc
> 
> Other notes:  
> \- Lancel and Moonboy are horses in this version :)  
> \- Les Deux is a club in LA (the bottle service kind)  
> \- Tomas = Tommen  
> \- The Grove is a big outdoor shopping mall in LA (side note: Lena Headey and Pedro Pascal were photographed there recently, looking pretty cosy!)  
> \- A piaffe is where, in dressage, the horse trots in place


	5. Sun Horse, Moon Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot gallops, er, thickens.

 

 _"In riding a horse we borrow freedom"_ \- Helen Thomson

* * *

Sansa’s favorite time of the year in Winterfell was summer, where they were all allowed to stay up late under the midnight sun, playing cowboys and Indians in their enormous backyard (only in their case, cowboys were the bad guys and Indians nobly attempting to staunch off the invaders). They would build forts and fortify the treehouse, and Sansa would carefully plan her outfits (the fringed leather if Indians, the checked blouse if cowboys). All the while they could hear seagulls keening above, smell the salt and the pines and the sweet bloom of flowers from outside and from their greenhouse (her mother’s gift and the envy of Juneau).

If she were paired with Arya, they’d be as likely to fight each other as the other team - but Arya usually wanted to play with Jon anyway. Jon - the orphan Ned had brought with him when he returned from the Gulf War with no explanations or apologies. Jon, who seemed uncomfortable around Sansa but always had a hug for Arya and a brotherly bond with Rob and Bran and Rickon. In turn, Sansa preferred to be on the same side as Rob, mostly because he was the best at archery, but also because she secretly loved feeling protected by her older brother. Rob. Her throat grew tight, and she felt a burning in her eyes. She blinked them away and and focused on the students trotting around the practice ring.

“That’s it, Elinor! Try to keep your heels down.”

But her thoughts kept drawing her back in, back to Rob. He had tried so hard to quit drugs, only to be poisoned with them. Murdered. The file Peter gave her contained Rob’s autopsy report, which noted high levels of diacetylmorphine in his bloodstream. The file also included a grainy photo of a man leaving Mole Town, a popular dive bar in Juneau, dated the two days before Rob died. Sansa recognized Gregor Clegane’s ugly face and tattooed arms, because she’d seen him on recently - leaving the Red Keep.

“Careful on the turn there, Alla! And loosen the reins.”

So Rob must have known something, or had access to certain information. The only way he could have found out anything worth dying for would be through their father. And that would mean...a chill ran down her back, cold and wet. It would mean he had been in trouble too. It could mean Ned might not have died from pneumonia. But what kind of trouble? And how exactly was it all connected to the Lannisters?

A high-pitched shriek snaps her back to attention. She hurries over to Megga, whose horse had yanked her over to the corral’s edge and was now contentedly chewing off a clump of sage brush.

Sansa forces herself to be present the rest of the session, but she’s glad when the lesson’s over. She hurries through cleaning and brushing the sweat-soaked horses, and takes a quick shower in the outdoor stall. The clock on the office wall says ten to two; she still has a few minutes before Tyrion comes to pick her up. Sansa struggles to suppress her nerves. In her conversation with Peter two weeks ago, he’d said she needed to tell Tyrion she couldn’t have him sponsor her. He said Tyrion would insist, and that Sansa would then reluctantly agree, on the condition Tyrion also teach her more about the Lannister business operations and how he did what he did. When Sansa expressed doubt that Tyrion would fall for it, Peter assured her he would. “You may not appreciate the power of beauty yet, Sansa. But you’ll learn.”

She looks at her reflection in the stained mirror above the washbasin. Her hair is still damp, turning the normally fiery red a darker auburn. While she’s careful always to apply the highest SPF sunscreen possible, the countless hours under California sunshine have made freckles bloom across her face (like riders on a plain, she jokes to herself). On the plus side, they make her blue eyes brighter, and on the occasions that she smiles, her face still resembles a young woman of promise.

And Peter was right. Tyrion did demand to know why. Angrily, he told her he would protect her from his family. When Sansa had tearfully confessed how ignorant she felt about everything, how she would never know how to do anything useful that would be able to get out of Red Keep, he swiftly offered to take her under his wing (the bitchy part of Sansa scoffed at the mental image of her crouching to fit under his shortened span). And because he was now paying for her lodging and equipment, Cercee was reluctantly forced to allow Sansa a freer rein. Cercee. Sansa felt hate congealing in her stomach at the thought of her, and by extension, the whole Lannister family. She hadn’t lied to Tyrion: she does feel lost and clueless, and she does want to understand what’s going on around her. She just didn’t tell him it was motivated by a desire to find out how and why they had killed Rob and destroyed her family and to make them all pay for it. As to why Peter is helping her - she is sure he has his reasons, and she prefers to think most of them are motivated by helping his former best friend’s lost daughter.

The clock on the wall says 2 o’clock. Sansa hears the gravels churn under the wheels of Tyrion’s Jeep. She straightens her shoulders, brushes back her hair, and walks out to welcome him with a brilliant smile.

* * *

A couple of months pass, and while Sansa can’t say she ever feels fully at ease with Tyrion, she does actually enjoy learning about the business aspect of things. At the very least, it makes her feel less lost, less clueless. And as it turns out, ‘the business’ is an impressively large collection of companies, not just Red Keep. The Lannister empire includes various PR firms and production companies, minority and majority ownership of banks and hedge funds, and funds in various closely-held medical research facilities. It’s those, and the glossed over discussion of certain import/export companies that piques Sansa’s curiosity (suspicion?) the most, but she’s careful not to show too much interest.

Tyrion’s job seems to be as all-purpose fixer: he smoothes out arguments between shareholders, un-sticks packages stuck in customs, fires executives with questionable loyalties, even, on one occasion, has to talk down a trader at one of the mid-sized brokerages from the top of a supply cabinet where he was crouched with a bottle of Arbor Gold, alternately threatening to spill secrets and raging about his divorce. It’s this last story that Peter seems especially interested in.

Sansa sees Peter infrequently, but with routine. Sometimes he arranges to visit Cersei and then wanders back to the stables; more often, with her increased freedom, she meets him at his office in the Gold Cloak Theater. He asks her questions about seemingly irrelevant details, then makes her ferret out its importance. Sansa likes that too. She can’t deny she feels - if not at ease, then a sort of pleasant familiarity - when she’s with him. Maybe it’s that he knew and loved her mother when she was young and beautiful. And maybe it’s that when he smiles at her - not the bland lawyer smile, but the real kind - she feels an urge to reach out and touch him; his long hands, his face, his clever mouth. She shakes away the thoughts.

“Arguing with yourself? That’s one of the first signs of insanity, you know.” Sansa’s startled out and looks up at him, his face quirked into teasing half-smile. They’re in his office, the late afternoon sunlight warming the thickly carpeted room.

“Takes one to know one,” Sansa retorts, surprising both of them into full-bodied smiles.

“Quite. I’ll be on my guard for any further signs of mental deterioration. Now - did Tyrion say anything else about the incident with the trader?”

“Um - I can’t really remember. Oh wait - he did say he wasn’t surprised; the only reason that Corbray’s still around is that he gets good results so people have to put up with his crap.”

“I see.”

“You see? Why do you sound so smug about a trader losing his cool?” After a beat, it dawns on Sansa. “Corbray,” she says slowly. “He came here a couple months ago...you had an appointment with him just before I arrived. Did...did you ask him to do it? Create a scene? But why?”

“Magic, Sansa.”

“What?”

“Magic. Lies and Arbor Gold. Or rather, the art of misdirection.” He opens his palm to reveal her watch, an inexpensive thing with a thin leather strap. Sansa huffs in irritated surprise, and Peter slides the watch back to her.

“As it happens, I helped Corbray out of a sticky situation a few years ago. One of his lovers was threatening to tell his wife - and whatever starfucker magazines were interested - all about his preferences for younger men. I made sure the situation was...handled. So he owes me.

“Anyway. While Lynn was making a scene and getting himself fired, Ros was in the circuit room, helping us get access to the Eyrie’s system. More importantly, to its parent Gates & Lunar. Corbray has agreed to sue for wrongful termination, accusing Tyrion of corporate theft. It won’t stick, of course, but it will be more fuel for the eventual fire.”

Guilt pinches hard at Sansa’s conscience. “Is that really necessary? Why not go directly after Cercee or Tywin? They’re the ones who are guilty.”

“Nonsense, Sansa; they all are. And I can assure you, Tyrion’s mind is more often on your body than your future well-being. But he’s also no fool. The faster he’s pushed out of the Lannister inner circle, the quicker we can move. Cercee’s time will come, and soon we’ll have what we need to get you out of there and back home. Safely.”

Sansa wants to believe him; she wants to believe him so very much.

The setting sun slices across his face; his eyes spill out green and gold. She feels an odd tension in the room, which he must feel too, because he’s quiet now, gazing at her face with an intensity that makes her stomach flip. And when he (unconsciously) slides his tongue over his lower lip as he stares at her, she feels that tension slide lower into her belly. There’s a moment when time turns to amber - and then his hand is sliding through her hair, lovingly carding down through the long red strands.

He leans in, and she feels his mouth, dry and warm and firm and soft. A split-second pause, and then she’s leaning in too, but only for a moment, because his intercom rings loud and crass, and he’s pulling away with a wry kind of groan.

“I should get that.” He picks it up. “Ros? Yes? The 4.30 called to say he’ll be early? Yes, that’s fine. Yes. Thanks.”

Peter looks at her. “It seems we might have to cut our meeting short today; masters of the universe aren’t used to being told they can’t reschedule meetings to whatever time they like. I tend to disagree, but in this case it’s my client.” He straightens his shirt sleeves. “I have to check on a few things, but I’ll come up to see you soon. Next Monday, most likely. Does that work?”

“Yeah. I’ll make sure I’m at the Red Keep Monday.”

He pauses, then: “I’m looking forward.”

Sansa feels almost shy in her response, suddenly realizing what they were doing; how quickly they seem to have moved from neutral acquaintances to a team. “Me too.”

She gets up to go. “Oh, and Peter?”

“Yes?

“You’re not the only magician in town.” She holds up his silver tie-clip, carved in the abstracted shape of a bird. She tosses it lightly in his direction, and he catches with an expression nearly matching...respect. Sansa sketches a small, elegant bow. “The Great Sansarini will see herself out.”

Sansa takes an Uber to LAC/USC medical center for an update on a Lannister-financed clinical trial of a new cancer drug. In an unexpected L.A. miracle, traffic is light, and she decides to walk to Lincoln Park. Cars and exhaust fumes congregate along Mission Avenue, but Sansa relishes the rare joy of just walking without fear of who’s behind or what awaits, of being among people who don’t hate her or who’ve orchestrated her family’s demise.

She’s looking so intently at the colorful murals on The Wall (a memorial exhibit for AIDS survivors) she doesn’t really notice the man passing by; it’s only when he turns back to look at her that it registers. She stops in her tracks and takes him in: his once long dark hair is now closely cropped and the line of his jaw is stronger, but the expression in his grey eyes is the same one when they played Indians and cowboys: a longing for a world that has already come and gone. Offsetting the blue is his ID badge, twinkling its silver “J. Stark” against the twilight.  

“Sansa.” The name is almost whispered.

“Jon.” She smiles, mostly at the bizarreness of it all. “It’s been a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Wall: http://www.thewalllasmemorias.org/
> 
> I'm taking the liberty of making Arbor Gold a v. fancy white wine. Californian, though, of course :)


	6. A Dark Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon shows up. He may know nothing, or he may know something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay (for those who want to read more). I'm on a roll now, though!

_"A dark horse which had never been thought of, and which the careless St. James had never even observed in the list, rushed past the grandstand in sweeping triumph."_ \- A Young Duke

* * *

 

Sansa casts a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure Cercee or her minions aren’t hiding in the bushes somewhere as a kind of test  (a byproduct of her many cruel tests of loyalty) before looking back at Jon. There’s a moment’s pause where they’re both staring somewhat stupidly at the other, then - quick as a blink - they’re in a bone-crushing hug. Sansa can feel the strength of his arms; the kind of bend and flex that means toned muscles, not steroids and fat. He smells like Irish Spring and sweat and home.

 

As they part, she glances around again before pulling him to the opposite side of the mural, breathing fast and eyes never leaving his face. “Jon. Jon. I can’t believe you’re actually here. And you’re a cop? Dad would’ve been so proud. But why are you here? Didn’t you say you'd never be caught dead in L.A.?”

 

He smiles ruefully. “Yeah. I guess I know nothing. But I’m actually just here for a group training; I’m stationed in El Paso with BORTAC. Sorry - that’s the Tactical Unit for Border Patrol.”

 

Sansa’s face dims, and she glances around again. “Look, I know how weird and ridiculous this sounds, especially since there is literally nothing else I want to do right now than talk with you, but I’m meeting someone soon - and I don’t want them to know about you. They can’t. Know about you. Is there...is there any way we could meet later? Please?

 

Jon frowns, concerned. “Are you ok, Sansa? Are you in trouble? Because I can help and-”

 

Sansa cuts him off with a hand on his wrist. “I know. No. Yes. I mean, I’m not in physical danger. Look, it’s just hard to explain it all right now. Tyrion will be here soon-”

 

“ ** _Tyrion_**?”

 

Sansa feels the panic rising. “Jon, please. Please just let me know how to contact you. I will, I promise. Just - I have to go right now.”

 

Jon looks like he thinks this is a terrible idea, but he relents. “You can call my cell. I don’t have a card, but I can give you the number. 648-379-2824.”

 

“Six-four-eight, three-seven-nine, two-eight-two-four. Got it. I won’t forget, I promise. I promise. I have to go now,” and she unlaces her fingers from his wrist, before giving him one more quick embrace. “You don’t know what it means to me to see you.” Jon watches her hurry away, her red hair gleaming even in the twilight. He absently rubs the back of his neck. For some reason, even though he just saw the person who was practically his sister growing up and who seemed equally overjoyed to see him, he feels like crying.

* * *

 

The day after that, an unfamiliar number dials his cell. He picks it up. “Jon, it’s me. Sansa. Can you meet me at Du-Par’s this afternoon?”

 

Three hours later, they’re sitting in the old diner on Ventura Boulevard. Sansa’s fiddling with her straw, the movement making her long braid slide over her shoulder and dust the countertop. She seems to be waiting for him to speak, but that’s ok: he’s learned a lot about coaxing unwilling conversation through his training at Special Ops.

 

“So - how are you?”

 

She looks up at him. “I’m...ok. It’s a bit hard to describe, I guess.” Sansa utters a short, harsh laugh. “But that’s probably true of all of us, right?”

 

“Yeah - I guess so.”

 

“I guess it’s hard to describe because sometimes it seems like a blur: I don’t know how I got here. Sometimes I dream of Winterfell and it’s so real: I smell salt and pines and see our family….and then I wake up. It takes me a minute to realize where I am, and then it plays again, like a movie on repeat. Mom in the sanctuary. Bran out in Ketchikan. Rickon in and out of juvie, and I haven’t heard his voice or seen him in years. At least I can google Arya and see photos of her when she was still performing.” Sansa smiles sadly. “She seemed happy, though. In the photos I saw with Gendry.”

 

Jon smiles too. “Yeah, she does.”

 

Sansa falters. “And Rob.” She looks up at Jon. “Jon, I...I...I don’t think Rob OD’d by accident. I think he was killed.”

 

Jon sits up and frowns, then leans in and drops his voice just enough. “Sansa - how do you know that? Did someone tell you? Did you hear something?”

 

And it’s in turn something in his voice that makes Sansa pause. She’s grown good at anticipating moods and preparing for them. “Why didn’t you ask me if I was sure? That I was mistaken?” She narrows her eyes and practically hisses: “do YOU know something? And you didn’t tell me? Jon, Rob was my brother, my blood and-” she’s cut short when Jon’s hand flies out to grab her wrist, just hard enough to get her attention. His eyes are giving her a silent warning. She gives him the tiniest of nods and then, like quicksilver, her expression is replaced by a light, flirtatious one, just this side of ditzy. She tilts her head slightly and smiles. “I’m sorry, baby. Of course you should hang out with your boys tonight. I’ll just miss you, is all.”

 

It takes Jon the same split second to catch on and respond.” “It’s alright, babe. I know I’m irresistible.” He leans forward and grins just a little suggestively. His hand is warm on hers and for some inexplicable reason (it’s the nerves, she tells herself), she feels her pupils widening as she gazes into his dark grey eyes. And maybe it’s her imagination, but Jon also seems a bit disconcerted.

 

Jon glances at his watch. “I’m really sorry, but I have to go soon. Training,” he shrugs apologetically. “Can I drop you off somewhere?”

 

Sansa flicks the button on her iPhone. “No, I’m ok. I have some time. I’ll just take a bus back.”

 

They pay the check and walk outside, blinking at the bright sunlight.

 

* * *

 

Jon and Sansa see each other irregularly over the next few weeks, whenever they can find odd times between her practice schedules and his off days. After the initial awkwardness there’s a warmth that grows between them. Sansa thinks that’s because she understands him better now, understands what it’s like to be unwanted and feel alone. Though they mostly meet up with the unspoken goal to figure out more about Rob’s murder and how to fix the mess her family is in, Sansa also feels comfortable enough to enjoy telling him about horseriding, feels safe enough that all the rest that comes with it - the stress, Cersei, being trapped - doesn’t spoil the retelling of that joy.

 

In turn, he tells her more about himself. How he enrolled with the Rangers but wanted to return to the States. How he heard about Rob only months later, overseas. How he hates the heat and loves, for some reason, the Walking Dead show.

 

“Can I come to the tryouts?” Jon says unexpectedly as they wander through the racks at a J.C. Penney (the old Sansa wouldn’t be caught dead in a J.C. Penney in some nameless Valley mall).

 

“What?” Her voice is muffled by the changing room curtain.

 

“I’d like to come and see you. You’ve put so much work into it. And when you talk about Lady and practicing, your face lights up,” he adds a little sheepishly.

 

“I’d - I’d like that.” He sees her bare heels lift as he tries something on. “No one back at home was much interested in watching me - Arya said she hated all the prancing around.” A pause. “But  Jon - you can’t let anyone see you. They could connect you to me - and you can’t be too careful when it comes to them. You don’t know what they’re capable of.”

 

The heavy cotton curtain is pushed back and he’d catch his breath at how beautiful she looks even in that simple blue dress but she’d reaching out to touch his wrist with anxious fingers. “Jon, please. I couldn’t bear it if they found out and something happened to you too. I-”

 

“Hey - it’s ok. It’s ok.” His other hand reaches to cover hers. “They’re not going to see me. I’ll be extremely careful, I promise. I promise, ok, Sansa?”

 

She takes in a deep breath and releases her fingers. “Ok.”

 

To distract her, he says: “you should buy the dress. It suits you.”

 

A bit of the happier Sansa reemerges. She arches an eyebrow. “Oh? And what would someone who preferred cargo pants and The Clash t-shirts know of fashion?”

 

He grins. “I’ve read enough Victoria Secret catalogues to have formed an opinion.”

 

“Perv!”

 

“Fine then. But I still think you look beautiful.”

 

A faint blush creeps along Sansa’s collarbone as she issues an equally faint ‘thank you.’ “I’ll just go back and, um, change.”

 

With a plastic bag in tow, they emerge into the late afternoon. They’re lured by the jingle of an ice cream truck and Jon waits with Sansa at the bus stop, he with his ice cream sandwich, she with her vanilla lemon swirl. The cars are loud and dirty as they pass, but Jon doesn’t mind. He hasn’t felt this calm in a long time. A glance at Sansa makes him think she might feel the same.

The bus arrives too soon for Jon, and they get up to say goodbye. He wasn’t going to tell her until he’s sure, but as she leans in to hug him he says: “I think I found something about Rob. A connection with the Boltons.” He feels her stiffen in his arms, but she nods, motioning him to continue. “I’m working on it. Next time we meet, I’ll have more. I promise.”

 

She pulls back, eyes a little too bright with tears. “Thank you, Jon.”

 

“There’s no need to thank me. We both want to find out what happened.”

 

“Still. I’m grateful.” She leans in and kisses his cheek. “And I’ll see you soon?” She smells of flowers and sweat and home.

 

“Soon,” he promises, as she gets on the bus.

 

* * *

 

That same night, Jon flies back to El Paso and drives the hour back to the dusty ranch he’s rented in Las Cruces with Sam and Ed and a couple other boys from HQ. After greeting Ghost and giving him his favorite treats (ice cubes and frozen liver), he grabs himself a cold beer, and sits down behind his desk. He opens his notebook - half-full with scribbled notes - pops open his laptop, and continues the research he’s been doing since he met Sansa again - well, before that even. It was what Sansa said - about Rob, the Lannisters, the Boltons - that made him think there were more threads between his work and those stories than he knew.

 

The moon rises and arcs above as he works, casting light onto Ghost (now dozing gratefully in front of the A/C), and onto the floor of his room, spare and cold.

* * *

 

Three days after that, Jon prepares paperwork to request a transfer from BORTAC to the San Diego Gatekeeper Patrol.

* * *

 

A week after that, Division Chief Thorne hands him an envelope, smirking. It isn’t even a full piece of paper; just a rectangular slip: **Request for Transfer Denied**.

* * *

Two weeks after that, and one week before Sansa’s Olympic tryout competition, news spreads across HQ: CPA Mormont is dead. Suffered a heart attack in the field (there are darker rumors Jon chooses to ignore).

* * *

 A week after that, Jon is assigned a new case. Undercover. Deep in the unmarked border between Mexico and Texas. He debates telling Sansa he won’t be able to make it, but he likes the idea that she thinks he’s there, somewhere in the crowd, in disguise. His heart aches a little. Sam promises to take care of Ghost, as always.

* * *

Three days after that, he’s walking to the van in the blue pre-dawn, throwing his gear into the van with Ed, Dennis, and Glen. They’ll be part of the larger Operation Night’s Watch, tracking and identifying the growing trail of prescription drugs floating across the border. The engine kicks in, and releases small puffs of dust. Then it’s gone, and the field is still again, except for a solitary blackbird heralding the coming sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BORTAC - the Border Patrol Tactical Unit of the U.S. Most of its focus is in the Mexico-U.S. border zones, though apparently increasingly also on the U.S.-Canada border. 
> 
> Du-Par's - http://www.du-pars.com/


	7. Equo ne credite, Teucri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter helps Sansa piece together a puzzle using...unconventional methods.

_"Equo ne credite, Teucri! Quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentis."_ - Virgil,  _Aeneid_  II.49

* * *

 

Sansa feels rather guilty, waving goodbye to Jon and then getting off at the next bus stop to call the number Peter gave her. The feeling follows her into the sedan that arrives to pick her up, but fades a little as she slides into its buttery leather seats, and further still as she walks into Peter’s office at Gold Cloak Theater and he smiles at her in greeting. After all -  it’s not as if she and Jon were dating - and if he’s doing his research, she has to step up and do hers, right?

“Well, now. And how are you this afternoon, Ms. Stone?” (Peter seems to delight in calling her ‘Alayne Stone’ every since she divulged the story about the character she uses as a pseudonym and her wilder tendencies).

“Quite well, Mr. Baelish. Just came from seducing the heir to a kingdom and taking control of his armies,” (one of the later scenes in the Stone series).

He grins again, pleased. “Sounds dangerous. I don’t know if I can offer anything quite as exciting, but I do have some files that may be of interest.”

Sansa’s playful mood evaporates. She sits in the extra chair and opens the manila folder, heart pounding in anticipation -- but all she sees are piles of newspaper clippings. New York Times analyses on the vacuum left by Ray Targarian’s death; gossip columns gushing about Cercee’s marriage to Robert and the opening of the Red Keep Ranch, some lurid big-font papers on a recent string of models who od’d, and several tiny-print financial reports dryly listing various company mergers.

As she’s reading, she can feel Peter gaze on her face, waiting. She turns to him. “But Peter, all these articles are all out-of-date. The most recent one is-” she squints at the paper, “-fourteen months old.”

Peter’s smile doesn’t falter; he simply leans in closer. “Revenge doesn’t happen in a day, sweetling,” (a nickname used by many of Alayne’s lovers), “nor is a criminal empire built in one. Look at the dates again.”

Sansa coughs. “Um. Ok. So, Ray Targarian died in a shootout in his home in L.A. 25 years ago. Says here, along with owning various legitimate businesses, Ray was long suspected by the LAPD of both involvement in Soviet politics and using family connections in Central Asia to virtually corner the West Coast narcotics market.”

“Go on.” His minty breath against her neck makes her shiver pleasantly.

Sansa struggles to focus on the papers, and her dress suddenly feels woolen and scratchy.

“Then there’s a follow-up to the story a year later quoting D.A. Stan Borathian commending the reduction in illegal drug activity.”

“Correct.” She feels a warm hand on her knee.

“Ah...and this, around the same time, noting a merger between Storm’s End Contracting and Casterly Pharma.”  She spreads the papers across the desk as the hand travels up her thigh, which also instinctively spreads open a little.

“And, ok, here’s Cercee’s spread in People, noting her retirement from show jumping,” she continues, a little hoarsely, “to open Red Keep Ranch.”

“Mm-hmm.” Peter’s hand is now ghosting her waist, and his lips are almost - so close - against her neck.

“And then this -” her fingers shake a little as she holds it up, “from a year and a half ago, celebrating the merger between Casterly Pharma and Highgarden Holdings.”

Sitting in her cheap aluminum chair there in the office with Peter so warm beside her and the history of these wretched families spilled out in front of her is enough to make Sansa moan (of frustration or desire, or both, she’s not sure).

As if he’s reading a cue out of some bizarre playbook, Peter’s response is to pry the newspaper (in danger of being torn) out of her hand, murmuring something soothing, and lower her hand not back onto the desk but lower, down to her dress, and then (ever-so-gently) under it.

His long fingers over hers, he drags her hand up her thigh, up, up, until her fingerpads reach her cotton underwear. She feels like she’s in an alternate universe, or in some crazy reverse image of one of Alayne Stone’s stories. Alayne in fucking Wonderland.

But she doesn’t stop him. And he doesn’t try to move the damp cotton aside to stroke her slick skin, or guide her other hand into his lap. He just keeps one hand on hers, leading it, first with feather-light strokes, then adding circles, and - ah - just the rights amount of pressure. Her skin feels too hot, too tight, but so good, and she’s going to soak through the fucking cotton.

When she feels the beginning of that perfect ache, she’s bold enough to look at him for the first time since she opened the files. His eyes are wide and so black they look glazed, except he’s gazing directly at their entwined fingers like he’d burn if he turned away, and he’s sweating and his mouth is open in a way it never is. That’s what she needed, that’s oh god what she wants, and the world narrows to a pinpoint before coming and releasing.

She slumps back in the chair while his fingers (gently, perfectly) extend the waves of her orgasm (like a mother soothing a child, she thinks absurdly), and stares vacantly at newspaper clippings littering the desk. A minute goes by. And then certain words begin to rise up and focus, seemingly of their own accord, like steam: Vacuum left by death of Targarian scion. Casterly Pharma replaces Valyrian’s federal contract . Borathain Industries recover.

His fingers are still resting quietly near her cunt as she says in a flat, neutral tone that would have frightened her in an earlier life, “Robert Borathian had Ray Targarian murdered. The Targarians had connections to drug routes in Central Asia. Good drugs. The Lannisters wanted to control more of the market.” A pause, a guess. “So they had Robert Borathian do it, cover it up, and promised to save his fortune if he did.”

“And they kept their word.”

“Yes. They did.” She continues. “And together they could expand the market and replace it with more of their own manufactured drugs.” His silence tells her she’s right. She feels sick.

“Made in America. How patriotic. And Cercee, opening up the Ranch?”

“Lots of space. Not so many questions.”

“Of course. All those people I saw coming and going. I thought they were movie stars and international celebrities. God, I was so stupid.”

“Not stupid. Naive.”

“And my father?” At that question, she realizes where she is again, and with whom. She sits up and tugs down her dress. She twists to look at Peter, who, despite a few hairs out of place, seems once again untouched.

He looks at her as if his fingers weren’t making her her come a few minutes ago. “Your father and Robert were good friends from way back. College, then Ranger school. 2nd division, right?” Sansa nods, dumbly.

“After that, Robert left Anchorage to try his luck in L.A., while your father stayed in Juneau to manage the Stark family empire.”

“Don’t say it like that. It wasn’t an empire. My father just wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and do the Stark name proud.”

“Yes, of course. Very honorable.” There’s more than a trace of bitterness in Peter’s tone. “Did you know Stark Enterprises was once the majority stakeholder of the largest military contractor in the U.S.? Helping our friends drop the best bombs and shoot the finest guns in the name of democracy.”

Sansa wants to yell, to come to her father’s defense, but she also needs to know, doesn’t want to be blind, so she bites her tongue, listens, and makes sure she hears and understands every word.

Peter shakes his head almost imperceptibly. “But you’re right, of course. Your father was an honorable man. And when he heard that Borathian Industries was selling Stark-made weapons to less democratically-minded insurgents, your father tried to stop him. He might have even managed to do it, but Ned used his contacts to continue investigating - about subtly as Cercee after a three martini lunch, I might add - but that’s beside the point now.

“I imagine he discovered not only the arms sales, but the Lannisters’ use of those newly opened trade routes to buy purer products to use in their own manufactured drugs and create newer and more powerful combinations. Some less successfully than others; hence the increase in accidental - and not-so-accidental - overdoses you’ve seen in the press recently.”

Sansa remembers the photos he showed her months ago. Rob’s body. The medical report. The _real_ medical report. Something inside her feels hard and ugly.

“Since all this information seems to be old news to you, Mr. Baelish, why are you involving me? What could I possibly do that you couldn’t if you wanted? Or is this just all a diversion for a bored attorney, a game you play for clients?”

Peter cocks his head. “A game? It’s all a game, Sansa. Life is a series of moves: advances and retreats. Winners and losers. And I assure you I have my own valid reasons to...reset the playing field.” He smiles brightly. “Also, you’re wrong. You can do what no one else can.”

“Which is?”

Peter smirks. “ _Equo ne credite, Teucri._ ” Before he can translate for her, Sansa stands and cuts him off.

“‘ _Q[uidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeo_Danaos_et_dona_ferentes).’_ ”

At his look of surprise, she explains, “my father insisted we all learn Latin.” She smiles bitterly. “He called it the language of honor. But don’t worry, Peter: I’ll be your Trojan Horse. I’ll help you conquer Troy, as long as I can help burn it to the ground.”

* * *

Five weeks after that day in the office and the day she last saw Jon Sansa wakes up with the sunrise. It’s the day of the Olympic tryout but more importantly, the day she finally gets to help destroy Cercee Lannister.


	8. Of Dishonor & Trojan Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very while-y while, but I feel good about picking this back up and updating fairly frequently!
> 
> This chapter is more of a set-up for future action (and hopefully interesting plot twists).

______________________________________________________________________________

_"A dog may be man's best friend...but the horse wrote history."_ \- Author Unknown  
_______________________________________________________________________________

The morning of the competition dawns humid and grey, but the weather doesn’t dull her stomach’s wild butterflies, and adrenaline’s flooding her system when Tyrion comes to wish her luck. 

“How’re you doing?” She starts at his voice. He smiles. “Dumb question, sorry. How about: I know you’re going to do great?”

“Thanks. And thank you for all you’ve done for me. You didn’t have to. And I appreciate it.”

He’s a little flustered by the compliments. “Of course. I know firsthand how awful my family can be. And maybe I want you to win so I can rub it in Cercee’s face.” They both smile at that. “But no pressure.”

Sansa out at the neatly ordered groups of teams and horses. “Totally. No pressure. Just horsing around.”

He grins. “Well, I’d better go and grab my seat before one of Cercee’s minions does. I’ll be out there, supporting you by drinking at least three mint juleps.”

“Sounds like a plan. And Tyrion?

“Yeah?”

“I really do mean it. Thank you.” And Sansa does mean it. She’ll never trust him, but she is grateful. 

“You’re welcome. I’ll see you on the other side.”

“On the other side.”

Lady whinnies next to her, and Sansa strokes her flank and lays her head against Lady’s neck. “It’s alright, Lady, it’s alright. You’re my lady, and I’ll love you no matter what. Remember that, yes? No matter what.” Sansa takes a deep breath and mounts. She guides Lady to the center of the ring, and they wait, motionless, for the music to start. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

When Margery is announced as the winner, the crowd simultaneously cheers and looks to Sansa, whose disappointment is plain. But she’s soon forgotten amid the flash of cameras as Margery reemerges, changed into something rosy-gold and accessorized by Jeff’s toned arm slung around her. The crowd whispers: what a handsome couple. How well-matched.

At first the strain of a different murmur isn’t noticed; it’s only when one of the competition’s officials walks up to Cercee and motions for her to walk with him that the whole crowd takes notice. A few minutes pass. The loudspeaker announces - in that grey, disaffected manner used when announcing scandals in prestigious venues - that the Red Keep team is disqualified, pending further review. The new winner of the Olympic tryout class is Sansa Stark, riding for Tyrion Lannister. The crowd’s tune is now totally chaotic. Rumors of doping by the Red Keep - like discordant notes - are heard. People shout, iPhones held in the air to capture the moment. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

In the upper levels, Peter stands and smoothes his linen suit and begins making his way to the exit; there’s no more to be done for now. Even from this distance, he can hear Cercee screaming obscenities. 

As he hands his ticket to the valet, he thinks back on the performance and feels a rush of blood. Watching her, it was like she moved only for him, danced only for his eyes. Watching her, Peter had felt something genuinely close to respect. Peter knew - certainly better than most - how hard it is to hide one’s skill, to move in clothes that don’t fit; to perfect the subtle illusion of being second best. Only someone like Sansa could have made that horse alter - but not falter - on a rhythm and routine that had been practiced over and over again, so that she would be sure she wouldn’t win. Only a master could have known how to be good, but not too good and make Margery’s win seem believable; how to gain people’s sympathy while lying to their faces. He hopes she understands that it will be worth it, despite what’s yet to come.


	10. Wild Horses

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________  
_The spirited horse, which will try to win the race of its own accord, will run even faster if encouraged._ \- Ovid  
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

A thousand golden lights twinkle through the palm trees while waiters ply an endless trade of champagne and bourbon and a live band plays the classics. Pretty young things flit around the infinity pool and older patrons form power clusters inside the Hollywood Hills mansion: a party just the ones that had enthralled a younger, blinder Sansa. 

And in the middle of it, like a terrible shining jewel, is Cercee. Sansa has to hand it to her - no matter how furious she is on the inside, Cercee knows the show has to go on and how to make sure she was at its center. And tonight, despite the doping scandal looming over her, ruining what was supposed to have been another lavish celebration of Lannister victory, she greets guests with a smile, her blond hair in waves and her structured white off-the-shoulder dress screaming just the right mix of ‘I’m innocent!’ and ‘let me prove it to you’. 

It makes Sansa nervous, and she wonders if it’s a mistake to have come. But Tyrion insisted - he said it would make her look guilty or like a sore loser if she didn’t. So she breathes deep and manages to slink inside while Cercee is snarling at a waiter. 

And, once inside, she finds herself relaxing despite herself. Even Cercee is unlikely to attack her in front of this many people. And there’s champagne. And the transformation of her long faint and formless notion of ‘revenge’ into actual physical shape. There are lights, and music, and laughter, and idle conversations with people who seem genuinely happy for her, including some of her old teammates who have clearly been instructed to ostracize her. And champagne (Sansa’s no longer sure how much). Then she turns and Peter’s standing next to her. He’s dressed differently tonight - a silk green button down and black leather pants, clothes that would look ridiculous on most men, but oddly enough, work on him.

“What are you doing here?”

Peter shrugs. “I heard Justin Bieber might be coming?” 

Sansa laughs, unelegantly, then snorts as a bit of champagne-bubble bursts in her nose. Peter grins - a wide, full-bellied grin - at the show. 

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out for you. Ask Jeff - he’s an excellent asshole magnet.”

“Indeed. I’ll be sure to not ask him. Well, don’t let me stop you from your bubbles. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few people I need to talk business with.”

“Is that what the Beliebers say?”

Peter looks back at her with a wounded hand-on-heart while simultaneously waggling his eyebrows. She rolls her eyes and starts her search for the waiter with the canapes. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

The party’s in full swing when she hears glass clink in preparation of “Speech! Speech!” In the entryway is Cercee, holding her champagne flute and looking flushed. 

“Thank you all for coming here, and I hope you’re enjoying our little party!” Obligatory affirmations and claps.

“A party - a celebration. Yes - a celebration despite the unfortunate accusations that have been spread about today’s event. But - I am absolutely - absolutely confident that Red Keep will be cleared and, more importantly, the person behind these disgusting lies caught and punished.

“Of course, we are not here to celebrate the unfortunate acts of others. In fact, I have a special announcement to make. Jeff, come up here.” 

Cercee reaches for Jeff - who, like his mother, is handsome despite his ugliness - and grips his hand tightly. Too tightly, it seems, because he scowls. 

“My son Jeff, who will be taking over management of Red Keep in the near future, has another impressive item to add to his resume. Margery Tyrell, whom most of you know won today’s recent competition with flying colors, is now also Jeff’s fiance.”

Sansa’s first thought is admiration. Not for Margery (for whom she feels a mixture of understanding and pity), but for Cercee’s effort to spin bad news into good, and for her determination to keep the Lannister name not only in the news, but on the marquee, lined in gold.

Margergy breaks apart from the crowd to join Cercee and Jeff, a vision in pale green chiffon, her ring finger heavy with her new yellow diamond ring.

“Thank you so much, Cercee! It’s been just such an amazing year, and I’m still pinching myself that it’s all happening!” She casts a doe-eyed gaze at Cercee, and tries to link her arm through Cercee’s suddenly stiff one. Unperturbed, she continues. 

“And I’m so happy we’ll be uniting our families - or should I say dynasty?”

Cercee’s smile is closer to a snarl. “Indeed. May the fortunes of House Lannister and Tyrell live long and prosper!” They all lift their glasses. 

While cheering and congratulating and cork-popping goes on, Sansa’s gaze meets Peter’s from across the room. He grins at her. Not the amused one from before: a predatory grin, like fangs.

Maybe any other day, she would have seen it and been a little intrigued - or perhaps a little unnerved. Then she would have smiled back, or maybe nodded and turned away, and that would’ve been that. 

But the exhaustion of the day, the stress of the last few months and the accumulated years of it, and tonight, having the chance to simply enjoy herself: Sansa’s defenses are lowered. Her caution, like a glass, left for a moment another room. So Peter’s smile, now, feels warm against her lips, his tempting fangs sliding into her neck. Now her blood feels hot and coursing loose. For the rest of the night, this one night, at least, she just wants to _let go_. And Peter seems to know (of course), because his expression changes into something else again. 

 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Exactly how, she won’t remember and doesn’t care, but she’s following him up a stairway, into a dark room in a far wing, with windows facing the dusted dimness of the Valley and the sweet California breeze. She isn’t even surprised that there’s already a bottle of vodka in an ice-bucket - but maybe that meant she had already let (led?) him too far into herself. Right now, she’s here because she wants to be, and she doesn’t want to leave. 

Peter doesn’t say anything - just lifts the vodka from the bucket, ice and water sluicing off its sides, and looks at her in offer. She nods, anticipation making everything hazy. 

He pours them each a glass, and toasts, smiling and never taking his eyes from hers. “To the dynasty. May they live long and prosper.” 

“To the dynasty,” and the vodka goes down ice-cold. Sansa tries to think of something to say, something flip to defuse her tension and make her body stop thrumming because he keeps looking at her like all the power in the world was possible for her to have and she’s pretty sure she’ll die if she can’t find an outlet, and she’s so fucking wet. Fuck. 

The burn of the vodka is still metallic in her mouth when his tongue tastes it, warm and minty. She leans into his body and his hands take her waist and slide her - fluidly and without asking - onto his lap. It’s all so wrong, and she should wait, but she can’t because she’s going to die if she doesn’t and so of course it’s natural, necessary, to straddle him, to rub herself on his leather pants. Peter groans and grips her arms and then the bones of her hips, the leather getting hopelessly slick as she moves back and forth. His eyes are hazy too now, and there’s none of his usual self-containment or grace as he lifts her hips to dip his fingers in her pussy. She’s so turned on she comes almost immediately, though she knows that won’t be enough. Wordlessly, heart hammering and almost trembling, she takes his hand and brings it to his mouth. He sucks the taste of her off his fingers, slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

She doesn’t know exactly what to do next, but again, Peter seems to know what she’s thinking. He gently tucks a sweaty lock out behind her ear “Have you done this before?”

“Getting drunk and dry-humping at a party of someone who would gladly push me off a cliff? No, not lately.”

He smiles, but they both know she’s nervous. 

“Do you know what someone asked me tonight?”

“No...what?”

“If I knew you, and if I could introduce you to them.”

“Ok - so? They probably just wanted to ask how it felt to lose both the competition and my ex-boyfriend. Or if I could just pass along their business card to Tyrion along with a god word?”

Peter smirks. “I highly doubt that Tyrion’s going to be getting a lot of business offers in the near future.” Sansa frowns, not knowing what he means, and opens her mouth to ask him but he cuts her off.

“Nevermind - Sansa. Look at me.” She does, reluctantly. “It was Martell Oberyn.”

“Who?”

“Martell Oberyn. Head of Elia Modeling Agency. The modeling agency. Sansa, he wanted me to introduce him because he said you were the most beautiful woman in the place. ‘Those cheekbones are worth more than all the plastic tits in Hollywood’ were his exact words, I believe, but that’s not the point. 

“Sansa - you are the most beautiful woman here. You could be wearing a sack and you’d still put those women with their fake everything and their empty souls to shame. So stop hiding under your sense of shame or guilt or the dream that Cercee or the Lannisters or anyone else is going to wake up and apologize for what they’ve done to you and your family.”

Peter takes her waist and moves her gently off so he can lift them both up, her blue silk skirt settling back over her legs. His eyes are faintly green against the moonlight.

Be Sansa. Be like your admired Alayne Stone, and take what you want.” 

If he was telling her the lies he thought she wanted to hear - she doesn’t care. She doesn’t. She wants to just not care and to be someone else, to crawl out of her own skin and be power and sex and his words are keys to a certain kind of oblivion. And it feels so very, very good. She feels in control as she her unzips her skirt and lets it puddle to the floor and eagerly accepts a line of the coke Peter somehow produces from a pocket and lines up on the table (‘it’ll make the first time easier,’ he said). 

It all feels good. His hands feel so good, his fingers, the way he looks at her not bothering to mask his desire to fuck her. The way her hands feel against his surprisingly toned muscles and when they slide along the hard and softness of his cock, and how he groans again and leads her to the bed.

It’s all so easy. How hard her nipples are, and the way his fingers feel as they slide into her pussy. The way his triceps outlines in the moonlight as he moves to brace above her. Isn’t this how it should feel? The way he breathes in her ear. “Fuck, Sansa. You have no idea how much I want you. How I get hard everytime I see you.” When she moans, he grins.

“Of course you like it dirty, Sansa. I bet you like it filthy.” And now it’s his turn to be too turned on, and he’s the one that can’t wait anymore. His cock is at the tip of her pussy, and nudges in, slowly, unstoppably. He does care when she whimpers a little - he does - but it’s how it is, and now she can know what’s beyond it, that pain, and fuck, she’s so tight against him. Fucking fuck. He shouldn’t lose control like this, but Jesus, she’s so tight, and her skin’s so soft and there’s this faint madness in her eyes that’s drawing him, like a kindred siren call, and when he comes it’s like getting the wind knocked out of him. After his heart stops trying to beat out of his chest and his breathing slows, he pulls out and sees the smears of blood on the condom. Sansa’s lying beneath him, but he can feel her restlessness, her need to fill and slake her own desire. He gets up and pours them each another glass of vodka and motions for her to sit up. He places her in front of him and against the windowsill by the bed, so she’s bathed in the mix of moonshine and party light. Holy and unholy. She’s so very beautiful. The faint madness still dances uncertainly in her eyes as she swallows the drink. 

He spreads her legs wide enough so one knee bumps against the windowpane. He leans in to kiss her, slow and deep. Then he leans back and slowly inserts, again, his fingers into her pussy, a thumb on her clit. Slowly and inorexably, he keeps going, keeping her legs spread until she arches back and he can feel her squeeze around his fingers, dripping.

She always thought the phrase ‘seeing stars’ was a cliche. But here, now, her eyes closed and her back lifted and she swears she saw stars explode on the backs of her eyelids; bright beautiful immediate fucking stars.


	11. The Runaway Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of what I know realize is Part One (of three). 
> 
> Some of the storyline mirrors the book, while other parts take a twist.

\--------------------------------------------------  
 _Ride the horse in the direction that it's going._ \- Werner Erhard  
\--------------------------------------------------

The house is rented for the party all night, so they still have a few hours before the cleaners arrive to dispose of the excess in the distilled morning light. He lets her dose for a bit. When she opens her eyes, he’s sitting in a chair - still naked - scrolling through emails. 

“Anything interesting?”

“Not really. Come on - let’s get out of here. It seems Justin Bieber was a no-show.” Sansa laughs, despite her impending headache.

He drives her back to the Keep while the air is grey and clean-smelling and desert birds are waking joyfully. 

She smiles at him. “You’ll miss me?”

He smiles and kisses her cheek. “Yes. This week coming up is crazy, but come to the Gold Cloak’s next week and we’ll outline your next steps regarding the ‘dynasty.’

Sansa nods. She’s very tired. Luckily Cercee will be out somewhere still, or sleeping it off, and she has a few hours to herself before Tyrion comes to pick her up (it was agreed that it was best she be out of Cercee’s wrath for a while. She doesn’t really want to stay at his place, but it’s not like she has many other options). 

Sansa’s almost inside when she realizes what had been bothering her about Peter’s comment. She makes it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
It’s not long before the newspapers print front stories and the morning talk shows are breathless with speculation about the fantastic intrigue and turnaround of the famous Lannister family. How Tyrion Lannister - jealous of his sister’s success - is now suspected of doping her horses to get her disqualified. Instead, he’s the one facing potential charges, and Sansa Stark is officially disqualified and likely banned from the sport for the foreseeable future. 

Sansa sees the news - but somehow she can’t summon the expected outrage. Instead there’s just a heavy dullness and a bitterness realizing that, once again, she was nothing but a piece on a chessboard.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
The next Thursday is cloudy, and Peter’s office, usually beautifully lit in by afternoon sun, is merely varying shades of grey. Ros comes in to turn on the lights in case Peter comes back (Peter hates it if he has to walk into a dark office), when she notices the door’s already open, a single desk lamp lighting the room.

“Hello?” Ros peeks around to see Sansa, but Sansa doesn’t acknowledge her or turn around; she just keeps staring out the window and into her reflection.

“Do you believe in honor, Ros? That there’s such a thing as honor?”

“Well, yeah. Lots of people are honorable. Or at least try to be, right?”

“And what about revenge? Can one have an honorable revenge?”

“Um - I don’t know. I’ve never been put in a position where I had to ask myself. Look - is everything alright, Sansa? Anything you want to tell me?”

Sansa finally turns around, and it seems like she she wants to ask another question, but shakes her head instead. “Sorry - dumb questions. Maybe the weather’s putting me in a bad mood.

“Anyway, I just came by to hand in my summary of my experience at the Gold Cloaks - it’s required to finalize the community service thing.”

“Oh, sure. Of course.” Ros takes the envelope. “I’ll make sure Peter gets it. “Will you be back anytime soon?”

“I don’t think so,” Sansa replies with something bitter-tasting in her voice. Ros likes Sansa , but she’s kind of glad she won’t be back. There was something about the way Mr. Baelish, looked at Sansa that made Ros feel weird. Mr. Baelish was a good boss, smart and funny and generous, but she also always felt there was something...unsafe about him. And Sansa was so young. 

“Well - take care, Sansa. And stay out of trouble,” Ros says with a wink.

Sansa looks at her with a funny little smile. “Oh don’t worry. I plan to stay very, very far away from trouble.” 

When Ros comes in to work the next morning, Peter is already there. She pops in to ask if he wants coffee. 

“Oh - and did you get the envelope Sansa dropped off yesterday? Something about an evaluation form for her community service?” 

She wouldn’t like to admit it, but part of her watches him closely for a reaction, any sign of guilt or relief, but he’s his normal pleasantly neutral self.

“I did. Thank you. And an Americano, soy milk, would be great.”

For once, Ros got the coffee order right on the first try (having practiced for an audition for a N’Espresso commercial last weekend). It was obvious Peter wasn’t expecting this swift improvement because as she re-entered his office, brightly offering the testament to her success, he’s got Sansa’s letter in his hands and is holding it so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t rip in two, and this time, this time, he’s not wearing a pleasantly neutral expression at all but something like fury (she was totally right that something was going on between Sansa and Mr. Baelish) but then she sees him, looking at her looking at him with only mostly suppressed office gossip glee, and a silly flutter of dread forms in her stomach. He’s his wearing this funny little smile but his eyes are piercing hers like a hawk’s; blank and cold and deadly.

Ros places the coffee carefully on the table. She backs out of the room, and walks to her desk. She sits down and opens up a private window on her Google Chrome. She pulls up Craigslist and looks for jobs seeking ‘experience secretaries - wanted immediately.’ 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
The smell of cedar is so strong it briefly disorients Sansa, reminding her of childhood and happiness and being loved. Stop it, she tells herself. Just stop it. Breathing deep, she pays the taxicab and gets out at gate. She presses the intercom: “Alayne Stone.” The electronic lock dings and the gate slides open. It’s only a quarter mile or so to the entrance, but Sansa’s heart is hammering so hard she feels winded by the time she reaches the entryway and the automatic lights flick on, the door opens, and she’s drawn into a strong if wiry embrace. 

“Oh Sansa, dearest. It’s been so long. But you’re here now, you’re safe. Safe in Vancouver with your Aunt Lysa. Now come inside - you must be exhausted.”

Sansa enters and Lysa shuts the door. Another half a minute and the automatic lights flick off. Then there’s nothing but darkness, the smell of evergreens, and the soft lapping of the water against the stony shore. 

END OF PART ONE.


	12. A Sheep in Wolf's Clothing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I admit: this is a transitional chapter (as I tend to think of Sansa's time in the Eyrie). Still, it gives Sansa some breathing room and time to rest, before the second half of Part II, and before le Part III action of the story. 
> 
> Also - see end notes for explanations on differences between this and the books.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 _“Man is to man either a god or a wolf.”_ \- Erasmus

* * * * * * * * * * * *

 

It takes Sansa a full minute to figure out where she is when she wakes up the next morning. The view out of her window is green and wet, so unlike the blue and dirt of Sunnyvale. And while there was always noise from somewhere in the Red Keep, cars, parties, music, the soft nicker of the horses at night, the only sound here is the pit-pat of the rain as it falls on the broad leaves. She wonders if she’s dreaming. 

After all, it was bizarre the way she found her aunt’s number, scrolling through the contacts in Peter’s phone when he’d been in the bathroom tha...evening. Or that Liza had actually answered the phone when she’d called, and was so willing to help Sansa purchase a plane ticket to Vancouver. Last night, they’d talked for a short while, Liza’s little Shih Tzu yapping at their feet, but Sansa was so tired she just wanted to go to bed. 

Today: so many questions. Until a few months ago, her life had been straightforward, in a trapped, endless sort of way. Now it seems comprised of nothing but loose ends. 

Sansa slips out of the covers and pads to the adjoining bathroom; a hot shower always makes things better. And it does; Sansa feels cleaner, if not clearer. 

Hopeful.

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
“No, darling - coffee is all acid; it unnerves the chakras. Why don’t you try some herbal tea instead?” 

There’s certainly enough of it; Sansa estimates that Liza has enough dried peppermint, ginseng, and St. John’s wort to sooth a small village. Defeated, Sansa accepts a lemon-mint blend. She’s also starving, but Liza doesn’t seem to place an emphasis on breakfast. Or food, for that matter. In the daylight (albeit the pale, filtered Vancouver daylight), Sansa knows it’s not caffeine that’s responsible for Liza’s ill-health; the many empty wine bottles in the recycling bin and the orange pill bottles in Liza’s purse speak for themselves.

The Shih Tzu starts yapping at the kettle’s whistle, and she bends down to scoop him up in her arms. 

“Silly Robin. Hush now, my little darling. My little prince.”

Sansa’s stares as the dog bathes Liza’s face with his tongue. Liza giggles. “Would my sweet Robin like a little treat? Something nice and juicy? Yes? Here we are!” She gives the dog another treat before pouring them both a cup of tea. 

“Now, darling, tell me everything.”

And Sansa does (or mostly everything). A part of her is telling her to be careful, not to trust too quickly - but Liza is family, and surely family can be trusted? So Sansa tells her aunt (mostly) everything: her begging Ned to join the riding team at Red Keep; her devastation in hearing about Rob’s death and how fast everything unraveled; Cercee’s cruelty and Peter. When Sansa asks her about Peter and how she came to be in phone, her aunt shrugs. “Cate and I knew him as children, and he’s one of trustees of my late husbands fund, but my lawyer deals with him mostly; I haven’t seen him in years. Now, go on, dear.”

After Sansa finishes she feels drained, but relieved. Liza holds her hand and tuts. “My poor niece. So much suffering in such a short time. And those dreadful Lannisters. My husband managed their private equity, and they could never stop bragging about their money and the heroics of one of their great-great something or others in the Gold Rush. . Honestly - there’s nothing to be proud of: as I hear it, it was his friend who found the gold, and was murdered for it.

“Now darling, why don’t you take a rest. You must be exhausted.”

Sansa’s tired, but not exhausted, and she’d much rather talk about next steps, and what to do next, and how Liza could help her, but she complies. After all - she just arrived last night. She can be patient a little longer. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *  
But, after that first discussion, Aunt Liza does not seem inclined to action. The more time Sansa spends with her, the more she sees how Liza’s self-enforced solitude after the death of her husband has worsened her natural neuroses (her insistence on referring to her dog as ‘my son, my little sweet Robin’, for example, weirds Sansa out, as does her irrational fear that hawks or wolves will swoop down and steal him, not to mention her bizarre love of Donny Osmond’s greatest hits). 

Still - Aunt Liza is not a cruel women. Rather, she seems to Sansa someone who could neither acquiesce to society’s demands nor keep believing in herself in the face of life’s horrors, stuck in a vise that warped her spirit into something unable to recognize itself.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

So days pass. To Sansa, they seem to drift from one to another, like a boat on the water. Or maybe she’s just not used to this much rain and grey anymore. The sun, when it comes, is brilliant, transmuting the bay a thousand golden fractals, and the wet leaves become green and rich and primeval. But the sunshine is always brief, and then all is grey and drifting again.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

If Liza’s content to wait, Sansa’s thoughts are not; they loop endless and unceasing. She spends much of her time on Liza’s old laptop, poring over old articles and Google news clips. She wonders if Cercee cares that she disappeared - Sansa guesses she’s more pissed off than concerned. She thinks on dear sweet Lady, and hopes she’s being treated well. Darker thoughts too - what the Lannisters are doing now, what people they’re fucking up. Rob. Juneau. Winterfell. Her father. Jon. Lady. Cercee. Home. Peter.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

There are a few other humans Sansa encounters: a housekeeper Sansa rarely sees; a head gardener and a few landscapers in charge of the gardens (‘the Vale, she calls it, miss’). A nice old man from Shadrich’s Spirits delivers a crate of pinot grigio each week (‘my name’s just Rich,’ he confides with a warm smile, ‘but my wife read the name Shadrich in an old book and said that sounded much classier than “Rich’s Tipples”’), and occasional visits from Liza’s Canadian attorney Nestor Royce. All are perfectly polite, and none ever ask where Sansa came from or how long she plans to stay. 

Sansa finds herself wondering if she even really exists.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

One night, unable to sleep despite drinking half a bottle of wine with dinner followed by two cups of ‘Sweet Dream Sassafras’ tea, Sansa decides stronger measures are necessary. Specifically, Liza’s living room liquor cabinet, which she keeps fully stocked for guests that never seem to come. 

There’s still a light on in the kitchen. Sansa pads quietly across the cedarwood floor, to avoid waking Robin (whose one remaining animal instinct, it seems, is to bark shrilly at the slightest hint of movement). She’s just past the kitchen doorway and a few feet away from the living room when she hear’s Liza’s voice. 

“Of course I’ve been keeping an eye out for her. What kind of aunt do you think I am?” Sansa hears a swallow of wine.

“No, she hasn’t contacted anyone. She’s been on the computer, but it’s mostly old newspaper articles and google searches of Juneau. She has been looking at recent news of drug raids in Texas though. Does she have relatives there?” Another pause. 

“I don’t know. Not so long, I think. She’s getting restless; I can see it in her. 

“But it is time, isn’t it? You said to start encouraging her to go to Winterfell again? Although I still don’t know why I had to wait. Or what’s left for her there. I mean, Cate’s practically catatonic, and god knows what her sons are up to.

“No, no, you’re right, of course. The past is the past. I miss you. You still love me, don’t you? Tell me that you love me.” The person on the other end must have said the right thing, and when Liza responds, the adoration in her voice is painfully, pitifully, obvious: 

“I love you so much. Come back soon, Peter.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Mmhmm. You too.” 

Peter takes a sip of scotch and hangs up the phone, relieved. Then he leans forward and frowns.

The footage is grainy, and the outdoor lights don’t help, but it’s definitely Sansa, on her knees and vomiting onto a patch of rare ferns. Was it that mugwort tea Liza kept pushing on his on his last visit? He hopes not - the very thought of it makes him ill.

He looks at the real-time security feed again. Sansa’s no longer being sick, but it seems as though she’s crying. At the thought that, indirectly, he has made her feel this way, Peter suddenly feels guilty. The feeling startles him so much, he takes another sip of Scotch. 

Christ’s sake, you fool. Get a grip. It had to be this way. You needed more time to put things into place, especially after Sansa just up and left to Liza. 

He’d meant for her to leave L.A., of course; and at some point she would have to go back to Winterfell if it was all going to work - but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. 

His own bullshit detector nags at him. Fine. He didn’t expect Sansa to put certain pieces together so fast. And he didn’t expect to miss her like he did. He thinks of the night of the party. How she’d straddled him, confident and naive at the same time. How tight her cunt was. How she’d _wanted_ him to fuck her. How she’d trusted him enough to fuck her. Now that way was shut. 

The unfamiliar feeling of guilt hits him again. He looks at the monitor, where Sansa is getting up, dusting dirt off her jeans. Christ, Sansa, he thinks, as she takes a few deep breaths before opening the door and going back inside. What are you doing to me?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“I’m going now, Aunt Liza.”

“Oh, so soon? Going back to L.A.?”

“No, Aunt Liza. To Juneau to visit my family, remember?”

“Yes of course. Silly me. In fact, your Aunt Liza did remember to get you a little something - to keep you warm and dry.” She disappears, and is gone so long Sansa wonders if she forgot what she was looking for, but then Liza returns with a click-click-click of her kitten heels, carrying a large cardboard box, the kind you find in department stores She lays it triumphantly down on the counter. 

Sansa opens the lid and lifts out the coat. It’s dark blue and grey, with a rim of white fox fur around the hood. It’s beautiful.

“Oh, Liza! It’s so beautiful! And it fits perfectly!” She hugs her Aunt’s bony frame tightly. Liza stiffens at the warmth, so infrequent for her, but her smile is genuine. 

“Well! I’m very glad my dear. I had forgotten I had it actually. 

“Your mother had one made for both of us, when I came to visit her after her wedding to your father. As a reminder that we would always be sisters.” The smile fades as the awareness of the intervening years turns the memory sour. 

Despite knowing what she knows know about Peter and Sansa, Sansa feels only sadness as Liza scrabbles around in her purse for another small white pill, her eyes closing in relief as it goes down with a large sip of her white wine. What had they done to the young girl smiling so brightly, so happily in the photo? 

Liza’s cell phone rings. “Ah! That must be the cab service. Well now - off you go. Don’t want to be late: all those dreadful lines at the airport!”

Sansa doesn’t look back, but it doesn’t matter. She can’t outrun the past, and she can’t outrun her future either. She just hopes she’s strong enough to come out the other side.

**********  
Liza sits down at the island table, cell phone in her hands, staring blankly out the window. Against the leaching of sun into the oncoming night, she sees Sansa’s happy face holding held up the jacket Liza gave her. she’d looked so like Cate. A terrible grief swells up in Liza at the thought of her sister. Not just grief at Cate’s breakdown - they hadn’t seen each other in many years, and their relationship had always been strained - but at how life had treated them both, how awful and uncaring life itself was. How it had made sure Liza feel like nothing but a speck, to be used and abandoned. Shaking, she takes another sip of wine, and then takes a deep breath as the Xanax finally kicks in. 

She wanders to the sliding door and pulls it open. The air feels sweet and clean in her lungs. It’s going to be alright, Liza tells herself. Everything’s alright. Peter’s coming soon. He’ll always come for me. 

And what did it matter if he didn’t really love her, is just using her for her money and connections? Nobody but her father ever really loved her anyway, and he’d died years and years ago. Life has always mocked Liza, even when she tried to stand up and do the right thing, so why should she bother now? Fuck life, with its stupid heroes and fighters and mothers and healers. If lies are what gets Peter into her bed, then she’s glad of lies. Lies, lies, lies, all Arbor Gold and lies, Liza laughs to herself, queen of her solitary kingdom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the inspiration for Lysa’s house: http://www.sothebysrealty.com/eng/sales/detail/180-l-738-h3b9q3/west-vancouver-greater-vancouver-west-vancouver-bc-v7w-1m3
> 
> Apparently Vancouver real estate is so hot right now, and one of the top 5 most expensive cities in North America. 
> 
> Also: my characterization of Lysa probably differs enough from the book to be significant. She’s still in love with Petyr, and she’s still lives on the outskirts of Bonkers-Town, but she’s not the same maliciously pathetic person she was in the books. Which I found treated her too meanly. Yes, she’s selfish and paranoid and tries to kill her niece - but she’s described as a sweet girl when she was young - so what happened? In my opinion, it was the timidity (not not badness) of her personality pitted against harshness of a harshly patriarchal reality, where she wasn’t pretty enough to be loved, was always second best, made to feel second best, had her baby aborted by her father, married a super old dude, had several miscarriages, and then a sickly son, all the while stuck in the skyscraper known as the Eyrie. She wasn’t a ‘good’ person, but that doesn’t matter so much to me, because to me, that sounds like a miserable life, and I don’t know if I could handle that either. Looong story short: I wanted to try and give Liza back a bit of little self-awareness and some dignity in a world that never found her worthwhile enough to care about.


	13. The Pack Survives, but the Lone Wolf:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa returns home after a long absence.  
> (this chapter is shorter than I would like, but it does set up the 3 (longer and very exciting I promise!) chapters for this arc (this story has three arcs: The Horse, The Wolf, The Falcon).

_ “In the city that the wolf enters, enemies will be close by. An alien force will sack a great country. Allies will cross the mountains and the borders. _ ” - Nostrodamus

_________________________________  
  


The first thing that greets Sansa at the Juneau airport is the smell. A chill, sea-salty smell. She breathes it deep into her lungs. She can’t move for a minute as the brine brings with it all the memories she had worked for so long to repress. She’s afraid to open her eyes, to move, but she’s not sure if it’s because she’s afraid it’s a dream, or because it isn't, and reality is more like a nightmare.

“Need help?” Sansa opens her eyes (now hazel-shaded, courtesy of contact lenses). A plump woman with red cheeks and a nice smile looks back.

Sansa runs a hand through her dyed-dark hair and reminds herself who she was supposed to be; just a college student, looking to travel and work in Alaska for the season.

“Actually, yeah. Do you know if any place around here is hiring for the summer? I’ve been planning to work in Alaska for the summer, but in between finals and everything else, I kind of didn’t get a chance to, um, actually find a job yet.” Sansa gives the woman her best sheepish-but-eager smile.

“Of course!” The woman says with a friendly laugh and a pat on the arm. “There’s always something open in the high season. A lot of kids come here work a few weeks and then decide they’d rather be hitchhiking to Anchorage or finding themselves or whatnot. 

“As a matter of fact, there’s a housekeeping spot that just opened up at White Harbor Motel, if that’s something you’d consider?”

“That sounds perfect, actually!”

“Well then - why don’t you hop on in? I’m driving right past it.”

“Thanks so much!” Sansa stretches out her hand. “My name’s Alayne, by the way. Alayne Stone.”

“What a nice name, dear! Mine’s Walda. Well, the boys around here call me Fat Walda, but just Walda will do.” Walda’s stomach bounces as she chuckles. “Not that they don’t have a point.”

They exit the carpark, and while Walda chatters in the driver’s seat, Sansa can’t stop staring out the passenger side window. The milky green glacier water, the gravel roads snaking up the dark green hillsides and the pale blue sky, all just as it was.

“Well, here we are!” Walda’s voice starts her out of her reverie. White Harbor isn’t anything fancy, but it’s clean, and the woman (albeit with the green hair) behind the reception desk looks friendly.

“Hi Walda! You’ve brought another one, have you? And what’s the name of this lost little lamb?”

Sansa blushes slightly, but Walda interrupts with a laugh. “I do seem to collect them, don’t I? Well, er…what was your name again, dear?”

Sansa takes a beat too long to remember and respond. “Alayne.”

“Ok, Alayne. Nice to meet you. And if Walda brought you here, I’m guessing you’re looking for a job?”

Sansa nods.

“Have you ever worked in the service industry before?”

Sansa has a mental image of all the times she’s had to clean up for Cercee. “I’d say that.”

“Right then. If you don’t mind changing bedsheets and plucking pubic hairs of the shower floor, you’re hired. And it would be great if you could start tomorrow; one of my housekeepers quit yesterday to join her boyfriend in Vancouver. Oh - and my name’s Wylla, Wylla Manderly.”

Sansa’s a little overwhelmed at the speed of everything, but Wylla’s got a firm, warm handshake and Sansa thinks they’ll get along.

“And that’s one less lamb for you to worry about, Walda!”

Walda’s chin jiggles as she laughs. “I’m glad! I have to leave anyway; Roose will be home soon.”

At the mention of the name, Wylla scowls. “I don’t know how you can stay with him, Walda. After all he’s done?”

Walda’s smile droops into something more tentative. “Now, now, let’s not get into that again. He’s my husband. And he needs me - especially after Beric’s death. Please don’t start with me today.”

Wylla looks like she has a lot more to say, but she clamps her mouth shut. “Fine. But you know you always have a place here if you change your mind.”

Walda’s smile brightens again. “I know, Wylla.” She turns to Sansa with a mischievous smile. “I’ve known Wilhelmina since she would run around our backyards stark naked; she’s a good girl, so don’t pay her sass any mind.” With that and a kiss to Wylla’s cheek that she unsuccessfully tries to duck, Walda leaves.

Sansa turns to her new employer with just a tiny arch to her brow. “Wilhelmina?”

Wylla scowls. “That was before I stood up to the patriarchal gender normative bullshit. It’s Wylla now.” She hands Sansa a towel and a flashlight. “Employee tents are down the road, half mile to the left. Job starts tomorrow at 7am sharp.”

At Sansa’s hesitant expression, she softens. “If you want to meet me back here at 6pm, I’ll take you to Mole Town. First beer’s on me.”

“That sounds really nice. Thank you” and, with a shy grin  “….Wilhelmina.”

*       *       *       *       *       *       *

“Two Boilermakers, Ed.”

The bartender frowns sadly. “That’s the kind of swill you’re offering to your employees on their first day?” He looks at Sansa. “She don’t seem like a shot anna beer type.” 

“Oh for god sake’s Ed. Just pour the damn drinks.”

“As you wish. But don’t blame me if you’re one housekeeper short in the morning.” He pulls two Pabsts from the fridge, and fills two shot glasses from the bottle of brown liquid with the label peeled off.

Wylla lifts her shot glass. “To proving men wrong!”

Hoping for the best, Sansa gingerly lifts hers, some of the brown liquid sloshing over her fingers, and downs it in one gulp; Wylla pats her on the back proudly while she coughs at the burning.

A few of the White Harbor staffers amble in; some grab a table while others join them at the bar. They start chatting, and Sansa’s surprised when she sees the time.

“Wow - I can’t believe I’ve been at the bar two hours already!” 

At her comments, Ed sighs mournfully. “Lucky you - I can’t believe it’s been two years and I’m still working at this bar.”

Sansa giggles and tipsily wags her finger at him. “Dolorous Ed, that’s what you are!”

The group laughs and even Ed cracks a smile. Sansa’s about to comment when the ugly growl and tear of a group of motorcycles cuts her off. 

Three men and a woman (all wearing leather jackets and a certain type of swagger that simultaneously wants attention while telling you to fuck off) walk straight to a table in the back, while the youngest of them walks up the bar. Goosebumps prick the back of Sansa’s neck as he leans over the counter, black hair falling over one eye. 

“Bottle of Black Label and five Buds, Ed. And a bucket of wings.” Ed nods. 

“Lots of spice, Ed - but don’t overfry them like last time, for fuck’s sake. You know I like ‘em juicy.” He turns and grins the last sentence at Sansa before walking to join his companions. 

“Don’t mind him. He’s just the inevitable byproduct of too much Alaskan inbreeding,” Wylla says disgustedly - -

but Sansa doesn’t hear her through the fog of her heartbeats and the rush of blood in her ears and the image of his face His pale blue eyes grinning at her His mouth grinning at her The tattoo of a flayed man peeking out from his tshirt grinning at her The man from the photo Peter gave her taken the night Robb died her grinning at her.

Ramsay Bolton.

**Author's Note:**

> I debated on what would keep Sansa stuck with Cersei in modern times, and settled on horse riding, specifically dressage. It seemed appropriately fancy for them both, and there is indeed a dressage center in Sunland, California.


End file.
